


to stop our hearts from drowning

by enbytim



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 58,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23400652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enbytim/pseuds/enbytim
Summary: Mickey gets out of prison six months after being arrested for a crime he didn'tactuallycommit. Things are going... well, they're going. Until he runs into Ian.The universe sure has a funny way of flipping his life upside down.canon divergent from 6x02
Relationships: Carl Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher & Lip Gallagher, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Lip Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Mickey Milkovich & Svetlana Milkovich
Comments: 212
Kudos: 503





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, here i am with yet another wip. i'm not sorry for this one, tho, it's been all i can think of for the last week. this is explicitly [taylor's](http://twitter.com/ianlovebot) fault - one conversation about mickey getting to watch ian's self love glo up and here i am.
> 
> real quick disclaimer: this isn't a complete au so much as it is me adding mickey to the canon timeline. which means there will be caleb/ian i'm sorry

Mickey is released from prison on a Wednesday – almost six months to the day after he went in.

Svetlana’s the only one in the parking lot when he _finally_ gets through processing and steps outside. She’s easy to spot through the chain-link security fence as he approaches the miserable looking guard standing in front of the gate. Mickey tries not to think about the fact she’d been the only person he could ask to come get him – it makes his heart ache in ways he’s better off ignoring. Svetlana doesn’t notice him immediately, from where she’s leant against the hood of an old, dark green car that he doesn’t recognise. From this distance she looks the same as ever; tight jeans, shoes that do _not_ look comfortable, a fur lined jacket that she won’t be able to wear when the days start getting warmer.

The guard doesn’t say a word to him as he checks through the paperwork. After what feels like an age, he opens the gate and Mickey is finally _free_. He doesn’t even try to stop himself from smiling, even when Svetlana _does_ focus her attention on him. She pushes off the car, the keys jangling noisily as she pulls them from her back pocket. When he gets close enough, she nods at him.

“Get in. I’ll give you a ride.”

Mickey is silent as he walks around to the passenger side and slips inside. The door jams a little when he tries to close it, and he huffs out a sigh when he finally manages to yank it shut. Svetlana drops into the driver’s seat with as much grace as she ever does anything and starts the engine. She taps one manicured nail against the steering wheel until the sound of it starts to drive him crazy.

“Okay, whatever the _fuck_ you’ve gotta say to me, just get it over with.”

It takes Svetlana another minute or so to actually speak. She lets the engine idle, her eyes drawn to something on the horizon.

“After today, we tell people we are divorced.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot for his hairline. Svetlana shifts gear and _finally_ puts her foot on the gas. She must take his stunned silence for acceptance because she nods.

“It is better this way. You do not want me; I do not want you. Easier to say we get divorce than tell truth.”

“Hold on a fuckin’…” Mickey trails off and scratches at his temple. “The fuck you mean we ‘tell people’? You saying we ain’t _actually_ getting’ one?”

Svetlana smiles, although there is nothing happy in it, and glances at him over the top of her sunglasses. She turns left at the end of the road, merging with a light stream of mid-afternoon traffic. They get stuck behind a delivery truck almost immediately and Mickey sighs.

“We were never _really_ married. I already have husband. He’s bigger piece of shit than you are.”

Mickey opens and closes his mouth several times, unsure of what to say. Svetlana pushes her sunglasses back into place.

“We tell people we are divorced now. Because you are rainbow boy.” She turns to him again, and even with the sunglasses he can tell her look is pointed. “This way you can live your life, and I can live mine, yes?”

“What about the kid?” Mickey manages to ask. “You were all about me bein’ involved before.”

The delivery truck slams on its breaks with little warning and Svetlana lets out a litany of Russian curses as she narrowly avoids rear-ending them.

“Yevgeny is taken care of. He is happy and he is healthy, and if you do not wish to be involved then I cannot force you. Besides, you are even less use to me out of prison than you were in. Less money.”

Her smile takes the edge off a little and Mickey heaves out a breath, his shoulders relaxing. He chews at the skin around his thumbnail. He isn’t quite sure how to say it. To _tell_ her that he’s never wanted anything to do with the kid. Not without sounding like a complete asshole. And whilst he’d had no problems being the bad guy once upon a time, he doesn’t really hate her anymore. In fact, sometimes, very rarely, he even _likes_ her.

She must sense his hesitation because she laughs. “It is okay. You were meant to be in prison for long time. I have made plans.”

“Already?” Mickey asks with a small grin. “Damn, you move fast.”

“Always be prepared. Is motto of your boy scouts, yes?”

They fall into a companionable quiet after that, although occasionally Svetlana will point out something she finds funny – a road sign, an ad in a shop window, someone walking on the sidewalk. When she pulls up outside the Milkovich house, he’s almost _sad_ to get out.

“Thanks for the ride.” He mutters, reaching out to grab the door handle.

Before he has a chance to open it, pointed nails are digging into his forearm and glossy lips press against his cheek. When she pulls away, she’s smiling.

“My number is the same, if you need anything. But I will not answer for anything less than emergency.”

Mickey shrugs her off and clambers out of the car. As she peels away, he raises a hand in farewell and almost smiles when she honks the horn at him. With a sigh, he turns back to the house. His shoulders slump as he opens the gate and stomps up the front porch steps.

As per usual, the front door isn’t locked, even though it doesn’t sound like anyone else is home. The living room is an even bigger mess than it had been the last time he was here. Without he or Mandy around to take the trash out, take out containers have started to pile up on the coffee table. He tugs on the lid of a nearby pizza box and pulls a face at the half-eaten, slightly fuzzy slice of… _something_ … still inside.

A wave of exhaustion washes over him as he stands in the middle of the house he’s always been unfortunate enough to call home. He lets the pizza box fall shut and shuffles off towards his bedroom instead. Whatever his dumbass brothers have let happen to this place in his absence is just gonna have to wait until _after_ he’s had a twelve-hour nap.

His room, thankfully, remains mostly untouched. After he’s toed his shoes off and thrown his coat over the back of the chair, he collapses face first onto the mattress and inhales deeply.

He’s asleep within minutes.

Six months, in the grand scheme of things, isn’t even really _that_ long. But apparently, it’s long enough for his time in the joint to have given him an internal clock, because he’s awake painfully early the next morning. At some point during the night, he must have managed to climb under his sheets, and he briefly thinks about burrowing further into them for a couple more hours of sleep. In the end, though, his need to piss wins out and he reluctantly frees himself.

After he’s gone for a piss and swirled his cotton mouth out with a swig of vodka, he stumbles back into the living room. It is still _eerily_ quiet, and he can’t figure out if it’s just because he got used to the way things were when Svetlana and Ian–. Well, the way things were _before_. Or if the house _is_ just completely empty. He shakes his head as he aims for the kitchen. It’s almost as bad as the living room, and _seriously_ what the fuck had they been doing while he was gone? He grumbles under his breath as he retrieves a roll of trash bags from under the sink and starts bagging whatever’s in reach.

By the time he’s managed to fill two trash bags and hauled them into the backyard, he’s about ready to murder the first person he runs into. He’s seen more mould in the last forty minutes than any one person should ever have to. He drops the bags just inside the fence line and wipes an arm across his sweaty forehead. His phone starts vibrating against his thigh, and he sighs as he fishes it out of his pocket.

The caller ID is an unknown number, and he’s tempted to just ignore it. His thumb hovers over the reject button for a couple of seconds, before he huffs out another deep breath and slides it over to answer instead.

“Hello?”

“Ah, good morning! Am I speaking to Mikhailo Milkovich?”

Mickey scowls. “Who’s askin’?”

“Oh! Well, my name is Larry Seaver. I’m your… parole officer, I suppose? This _is_ rather an unconventional situation, after all.”

Right. His _parole officer._ Even though the charges had been dropped, it had been one of the requirements for his release. Given his family’s ‘known history’, the only way they’d been willing to let him go was if he agreed to have one.

“Okay.” He says, rubbing his fingers over the light stubble dotting his jaw. Man, he needs a shave soon. “What d’you want?”

“Well, I was due to do a home visit at ten o’clock this morning. But if you’re agreeable, I could come earlier? Get it over with?”

“Uh, sure. Whatever.”

“Great! I’ll be there in an hour.”

When they hang up, Mickey stares down at his phone screen in a daze. A moment later he shakes his head and goes back inside to finish clearing up.

Larry Seaver is a tall, slightly overweight man in his early forties. He smiles way too much for Mickey to be comfortable, and his palm is sweaty when they shake hands. Still, to give him _some_ credit, he doesn’t so much as flinch when Mickey lets him into the half cleaned living room. Even so, Mickey refuses to apologise for it. Not his fault his brothers are animals.

Larry quickly settles himself on the edge of a couch cushion, his hands clasped between his knees. He smiles when Mickey lowers himself onto the other end of the couch.

“So, Mikhailo –.”

“Mickey.” He corrects.

Larry nods. “ _Mickey_. I’m under the impression that the conditions of your release have already been explained to you. Is that correct?”

“Yeah. I’ve gotta put up with this parole bullshit for a year.”

Larry’s smile drops a little. “I can certainly understand your frustration, but I think the best way to go about this is by working together.”

When Mickey laughs, there’s no real humour in it. “My ‘frustration’? I got locked up for something I didn’t even fuckin’ _do_. And now I’ve gotta put up with _this_ bullshit just so I won’t go _back_ to prison for the thing I didn’t do? All because of my _dad’s_ record? Damn straight, I’m ‘frustrated’.”

Larry doesn’t speak again for several minutes. He watches Mickey instead, until it starts getting a little uncomfortable, and then he nods again.

“Alright. Well, unfortunately, there isn’t much I can actually do about the parole itself. But, if you’re willing to cooperate _with_ me, we may be able to find a solution that works for both of us.”

“How?”

“Truth be told, Mickey, I already have too many cases on my plate. So, I propose that I have limited involvement with you, on the basis that you agree to check in with me whenever I ask you to.”

Mickey eyes him distrustfully. “You’re not just… fuckin’ with me, are you? This is legit?”

“So long as you have an honest source of income, _and_ stay out of trouble, then yes.” Larry says. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Technically speaking, you’re not _on_ parole, that’s just the name they’ve given it. As long as I submit the right paperwork occasionally, the higher ups aren’t going to care too much.”

“What’re you saying, exactly?”

“We meet up once a month, so I can make sure you’re keeping on the straight and narrow. _You_ stay out of any _actual_ trouble and promise to come to me directly if you do have any problems. Otherwise, you’ll be free to live your life – I’m not even going to implement a curfew.”

Mickey knows he probably looks like an idiot, but he can’t quite stop himself from gaping.

Larry smiles again. “I would rather spend my time helping those who actually _need_ me, Mickey. As far as I can tell, you don’t. It seems to me like you’re determined not to go back to prison. Your father is, of course, still inside. And from what we’ve been able to tell, your brothers have either been keeping very quiet, or they’re out of town.”

So _that’s_ why the house has been so fucking quiet.

“So, what do you think? Will you be willing to work with me?”

Mickey’s nodding before he even finishes his question. “Yeah, okay. I’ll bite.”

“Oh, Mickey, that’s _excellent_. Now, as much as I’ve just agreed to bend the rules, it _is_ a requirement that you get an actual job. Do you have any ideas of what you might like to do?”

“What does it matter? No one’s gonna wanna hire a felon, anyway.”

“Actually, you don’t have a record.” Larry says, laughing a little at the way his head shoots up. “Your sentence was revoked, and all prior convictions were sealed on your eighteenth birthday. So, _is_ there anything you’d like to do?”

“I’m, uh. Pretty good with cars and shit.”

Larry raises his eyebrows but doesn’t immediately say anything.

“A mechanic, then?”

*

Mickey has a job at some motorcycle shop within the next week.

He will _never_ admit it out loud, but Larry Seaver is absolutely fucking terrifying when he’s motivated. Oh, sure, he gives off the impression that he’s just some mild mannered, bumbling idiot who can’t tell his left from his right, but that’s not the truth. At _all_. Cluelessness twists into innocence, and Mickey watches the way it charms little old ladies into him shortcutting a load of paperwork first-hand.

Still, by the time Larry drops him off for his first day of work – a requirement to make sure he actually goes, _apparently_ – Mickey has seen enough of him in the last seven days to last a goddamn lifetime. If he shows up at the house unannounced _one_ more time this week, Mickey may _actually_ commit the attempted murder he was originally sent away for. He gets out of Larry’s car and slams the door shut on the quiet murmurs of the country station they’d been tuned into for the entire ride there.

“Good luck, Mickey!”

He makes a show of rolling his eyes at Larry’s enthusiastic smile. Then he shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and stomps towards the open garage door.

It’s quiet as he pushes through the plastic flaps across the door and steps inside. A radio hums somewhere in the background, and the florescent lights buzz above him. It smells faintly of motor oil and the fake kind of fruity shit they put in cleaning products. He eyes the bike on the closest rack, automatically taking stock of parts and the kind of profit he could make from them.

“You Mickey?”

Mickey’s head whips around so fast he may well have just given himself whiplash. The guy walking towards him is probably in his mid-thirties, although he could easily be a few years older. His hair is that weird shade of brown that people always say is ‘mousy’. There’s a patch sewn onto his breast pocket, but it’s covered up from where he’s crossed his arms over his chest.

“Uh, yeah.”

The guy nods and extends a heavily tattooed arm so he can shake Mickey’s hand. His palm is dry and calloused. He studies Mickey for a few seconds, before he relaxes his posture.

“Well, my name’s Brad. I’m the guy in charge.” He tucks his hand back underneath his armpit. “Now, I know what Larry _said_ about your level of experience, but how much do you _actually_ have?”

“Nothin’ official. But if you ever need me to hotwire a ride…”

Brad smiles. “You know anything about bikes?”

Mickey shakes his head and rubs at his jaw.

“Alright, well, don’t worry. We’ll getcha trained up in no time. But first let me introduce you to the guys you’ll be working with.”

By the time Mickey gets home, he’s just about ready to collapse into bed and sleep for a week. His hands are covered in grease stains, and his back aches like a _motherfucker_ , but he doesn’t completely hate it. Most of his day had included clearing up after everyone else, while Brad, or Eddie, or Rex (which Mickey still can’t believe is his real name, even after seeing his driver’s licence) quizzed him about what he already knew.

He might not know a lot, but he’d managed to hold his own well enough that Eddie had claimed “there was hope for you yet”. She _had_ then also told him that if he was gonna stick around he would have to up his tattoo game, though, so.

Instead of going straight to bed like his body is _screaming_ at him to do, he heads into the kitchen. He hasn’t eaten since lunchtime, when Brad had coerced him into going to _Patsy’s_ and eating a slice of apple pie. He’d spent the entire time on the edge of his seat, constantly searching for any sign of obnoxiously red hair – he doesn’t even know if Ian still works there. It hadn’t mattered, in the end, because either Ian _doesn’t_ work there anymore, or just wasn’t working that shift. Mickey pushes thoughts of broad shoulders and splotches of freckles from his mind as he rummages through the fridge.

Eventually he settles on a two-day old carton of Chinese takeout, and after sniffing it several times, shoves it into the microwave. He’s watching the way his food spins through the grubby glass window when his phone rings. He checks the ID and sighs as he answers it.

“Hello?”

“Mickey! Larry’s cheerful voice echoes through the receiver. “Just wanted to check in on how your first day went?”

“Fuckin’ peachy.”

“Well, I spoke to Brad a little while ago. He thinks you’re going to fit in well there.”

“I guess they’re not _totally_ awful.” Mickey allows, biting down a pleased smile.

“I’m glad you like them. I think this could be really good for you. What are you planning on doing with the rest of your evening?”

The timer pings, and Mickey yanks the door open so hard he moves the entire microwave several inches to the left. He hisses as he picks up the carton of food but manages to keep a hold of it.

“Well,” he says, tucking his phone between his cheek and shoulder so he can grab a clean fork from the sink, “I _was_ thinkin’ about snorting some blow off a hooker’s ass. But now that you’re here to show me the error of my ways, I’m gonna sit my ass in front of the TV for a couple hours.”

“Oh, please, don’t let me stop you. I wouldn’t want to interfere with your very important plans.”

“Considerate of you. Thanks.”

Larry laughs. “Goodnight, Mickey.”

Mickey hangs up with a smile on his face. He drops his phone onto the couch and then follows it down, balancing his reheated chow mien on one knee as he reaches for the remote. Maybe, just _maybe_ , Larry isn’t so bad after all.

*

 _Patsy’s_ is pretty quiet by the time they get there – the lunchtime rush is just starting to die down when they trickle in. They grab their regular booth close to the door, Mickey getting immediately squashed between Brad and the wide glass window. He makes a show of complaining about it, but it’s not like he _really_ minds. It’s kinda nice to be able to just sit and watch the world go by. Not like he’d got a lot of opportunities in prison.

He lets them chatter on around him as he watches two homeless guys get into an argument on the other side of the street. They’re talking about Cami again. For a woman he’s never fucking met, he sure does know a lot about her. One of the homeless men throws a punch and Mickey stops paying attention. Instead, he reaches out to grab a menu, just so he has something to do with his hands. He doesn’t even bother opening it. They get the same damn thing every time they’re in here: pie. It’s only a question of what the flavour of the day is.

Today’s is cherry, as it turns out. Not Mickey’s favourite, by any means, but it’s not the worst he’s ever had. He shovels another forkful into his mouth and takes his sweet time chewing it. The conversation carries on around him, moving onto Eddie’s sister, and he’s thankful they never expect him to join in. It’s not like he doesn’t _want_ to, or anything – he likes them all well enough. Which is weird in itself. But their problems all seem so far out of Mickey’s realm of understanding that he doesn’t know what _to_ say. The fuck does he know about property taxes or labour laws? Not like they really see him as anything but a kid, anyway. It had annoyed the shit out of him at first because he is _twenty-one_ , fuck you very much. But now he doesn’t mind so much.

He forces himself to at least _pretend_ to be paying attention to what’s going on. Brad notices him and does a really bad job of hiding his smile behind his coffee mug. Mickey rolls his eyes and studies the rest of the diner instead. It’s almost empty; a balding middle-age guy sits at the counter by himself, a couple of kids who look like they should definitely still be in school are cuddled up at a table in the corner, and a group of construction workers have set up residence by the door leading out back. He doesn’t really pay them any mind as he scoops up another mouthful of pie, but then that back door opens and Mickey’s entire world tilts fucking sideways.

Ian.

Here.

_Fuckfuckfuck._

He freezes for a split second, not knowing what to do. There’s no way Ian won’t notice if he tries to leave, but he’s gonna be seen anyway if he _stays._ Letting his fork drop back onto the plate, he slides down in his chair, suddenly thankful that Brad is so much taller than he is.

He spends the next few minutes keeping a watchful eye on Ian. Takes him in. It’s been just over a month since that last visit, and although he wishes he was literally _anywhere_ else right now, he’s also kinda glad he’s here. Ian’s skinnier than he remembers, his movements are sluggish like he’s just walking around in a daze, and it’s hard to tell from this distance, but the bags under his eyes look even worse now. Mickey squeezes his eyes shut and takes a shaky breath. He lets it out slowly.

“Hey, kid, you finished?”

Brad’s voice draws him out of his own head, and he realises that they’re all watching him. Concern looks fucking weird on Eddie. He flushes and nods, pushing his plate away.

“Yeah, let’s get outta here.”

They’d already paid for the food, so all they need to do is leave. He follows Brad out of the booth, uncomfortably aware of where Ian is without even looking. Like his brain is just wired to know exactly how close he is when they’re in the same room. His heart feels like it’s in his fucking throat the entire time, and when Brad pauses by the door so he can call out a farewell to Sierra, he almost groans.

“See you tomorrow, Sierra!”

“Bye, guys!”

Sweat prickles at his forehead and all he wants is for Brad to pull the goddamn door open so he can escape out onto the street. He’s about ready to bat his boss’ hand out of the way and do it himself.

And then.

Well.

“Mickey?”

Mickey’s shoulders tense even as he glances up. And there, standing close enough to reach out and touch, but who may as well be in the North fucking Pole for all that it matters, is Ian. Stupid, wonderful, _beautiful_ Ian. His eyebrows are drawn low across the bridge of his nose, and there’s a small, okay _huge_ , part of Mickey that wants to reach over and smooth them out with his fingers.

“Hey.” He says, because he doesn’t know what else there is _to_ say.

Ian’s lips quirk a little, like he’s fighting a smile, and _fuck_ Mickey has missed him. Which is fucking _stupid_ because Ian had made it real clear how he felt the last time they’d seen each other. He’s aware of Brad and the others slipping past them and out onto the sidewalk, but now that he’s here, his feet don’t seem like they wanna move.

“When did you get out?”

And that’s… weird. Mickey shouldn’t be out _at all_ , so why isn’t Ian that surprised? The only person who’d even known about him being released was… _Svetlana_. Of fucking course.

Mickey frowns, even as he says, “A couple weeks ago. Mother Russia tell you?”

“She mighta mentioned it.”

“So, you two are best friends now, huh? What? You sit around gossiping like a couple of old queens all day?”

Ian flinches. Then that stubborn jaw of his makes an appearance and he narrows his eyes. “ _Fuck_ you. She told me you were getting out and that’s _it_.”

“Why did _you_ need to know?” Mickey asks, eyebrows raised. “So you’d know when to hide?”

“ _Who’s_ hiding?” Ian paces a little and then stops, taking a deep breath. “I don’t wanna argue.”

Mickey scoffs. “That’s a fuckin’ first. But don’t worry, Gallagher, I’ll stay outta your way.”

“ _Mickey_ , can we talk about this?”

“When you finally figure your shit out, you know where I live.”

He yanks the door open and stomps outside. Brad’s standing on the curb, hands shoved into his pockets as he gazes up at the sky. It’s a clear day. The sun glints off the window of the laundromat across the street. At Mickey’s approach, Brad takes his hands out of his pockets and rolls his shoulders.

“You okay? Seemed pretty serious.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

He always has been _really_ good at lying.

Mickey spends the next few days in almost complete solitude. He manages to beg off going to the diner for lunch by bringing in his own crappy sandwiches like he’s a fucking pre-schooler. Now that he’s seen Ian, it seems weird that it had taken them _weeks_ to run into each other in the first place. At the end of his day at the shop he goes back to an empty house that echoes with what could’ve been, and just listens to the silence.

When he does finally run into Ian again, it’s completely by accident. The silence at home had grown too loud. Had started to settle in his bones and make him feel like he was crawling out of his own goddamn skin. So, one night, when he can’t take it anymore, he grabs his jacket, his phone, and a six pack of beer and just starts walking. He doesn’t even think about it, and just lets his feet take him wherever they wanna go.

He ends up outside the same abandoned building he’d been using to hide from his problems ever since he was a kid. And sometimes when he wasn’t a kid at all. It looks pretty much the same. The grass out the back is maybe a little taller, and a couple more of the upstairs windows are broken. He uses the flashlight on his phone to make his way up to the top floor and isn’t really that surprised to find out he’s not alone.

Ian startles at the light suddenly shining on him and glares over at Mickey.

“The fuck are you sitting in the dark for?”

He watches Ian relax at the sound of his voice, only to tense up again seconds later. Mickey strolls towards him, the six pack of beer dangling from two fingers.

“Mick…” Ian tries to stand up, but slumps back down when Mickey shakes his head.

“Sit down, dumbass.”

He drops the beer on the ground between them and then lowers himself down so he can lean against the wall. Gravel and what is probably broken glass digs into his ass, and he shuffles around a little to get more comfortable. Ian doesn’t say anything for a while, and even with the distance between them, Mickey can _feel_ how tense he is. He blows out a breath.

“Out with it, Gallagher.”

“Thought you didn’t wanna see me.”

“Don’t.”

Liar.

Ian sighs and starts getting to his feet again. “This is a waste of time.”

Panic, hot and unbidden, pounds through Mickey’s veins. He scrambles to grab Ian’s wrist. “Stay.”

For the second time in as many minutes, Ian sits. He raises his eyebrows at Mickey, who reluctantly lets go of his wrist. “You gonna shut up and let me talk now?”

“No one’s stoppin’ you.”

The look he gets for that is so fucking _Ian_ that it makes his chest ache, and he tries to bite back a smile. After a moment, Ian nods and inhales deeply.

“I’m sorry.”

It hangs in the air for a moment, with neither of them saying anything. Ian’s mouth works like he wants to say something else but isn’t sure how. Mickey rolls his eyes.

“That it? Jesus, Gallagher, anyone would think you don’t know how to talk. And I _know_ that ain’t fuckin’ true.”

“ _Mickey_ ,” Ian says, exasperation and amusement all rolled into one, “shut _up_.”

Mickey holds his hands up in mock surrender, grinning when Ian smiles at him.

He picks at a hole in the knee of his jeans, wrapping a thread around his finger and pulling on it. After a minute or two where the only sound is the two of them breathing and the occasional rumble of the L, Ian sighs.

“I’m _sorry_. For a lotta things, but mostly for the shit I said the last time we saw each other.”

Mickey can’t help the way he flinches. Ian nods jerkily. He’s staring at the wall directly opposite them, but his eyes look a little glassy. Mickey’s breath hitches in his throat. The itch to reach out, to touch, to _soothe_ is almost overwhelming. He _doesn’t_ , but he would be lying if he said his fingers don’t twitch. Ian glances over at him, his smile sad.

“I’ve missed you. I know I don’t really have a right to say that. Especially not after what I did. But it’s the truth. I _missed_ you when you were gone. All the time.” Ian’s voice cracks and he screws his eyes shut. Rubs a fist under his nose. “And I know I don’t really get to say this either, but I wish I could take back the shit I said. I don’t… I don’t regret breaking up with you. You deserve _so much_ better than I’m ever gonna be able to give you.”

Mickey opens his mouth to protest, but Ian must sense it, because he waves him off. His eyes are still watery when he meets Mickey’s gaze, but there’s a familiar glint in them that gets Mickey to bite his tongue. For now.

“I wish I’d gone about it differently, though. Been less of an asshole. You didn’t deserve that. And I’m sorry… for what I said when I came to see you. I guess I thought it would be easier to forget you if you hated me. Fucking stupid.”

Mickey swallows around a dry throat. He cracks one of the beers open and takes a long swig. It’s lukewarm and flat on his tongue, but he doesn’t let that stop him.

“Forget me, huh?”

It’s Ian’s turn to flinch. He twists his hands in his lap, long fingers twisting around each other like he’s trying to stop himself from doing something stupid. Mickey wants him to do something stupid so bad he can almost _taste_ it.

“That what you want? ‘Cause you just say the word, and I’ll be outta your hair.”

“ _No_.” It’s quiet, but there’s no denying that he means it. “No. For a while I thought maybe it was. But, well, it didn’t take long to figure out I was wrong.”

Ian slumps against the wall like a puppet that’s had its strings cut. Mickey silently holds out his beer can, but Ian shakes his head. He moves his leg and Mickey spots an empty bottle glinting in the darkness.

“Can’t. Not on my meds.”

“You been taking ‘em?”

Ian gives him an unimpressed look. “ _Yes._ ”

“Good. S’good.”

“They make me feel like a fucking zombie.”

“It won’t last forever though, right? They’ll even out soon.”

Ian leans his head against the wall and stares up at the cracked ceiling above them. “I guess.”

“What? You all talked out now, Mumbles?”

Ian’s eyes slide shut as he nods. “Talking’s hard, now.”

The simple act of _being_ with Ian has always been so easy. There had been a time where it had scared the shit out of him, but he’s _really_ glad it hasn’t changed. The silence that settles around them is comfortable, and Mickey is content to just sit and study Ian’s face. Back before this whole fucking mess had started, he’d spent _hours_ mapping Ian’s face, his body, and sometimes it had even felt like his _soul_.

Ian is so fucking _pale_ now. And sure, okay, he always _has_ been, but this is different. Mickey’s never been able to see the veins in his goddamn _eyelids_ before. Even his freckles are gone. That’s the thing he hates the most. He’ll never admit it to anyone, but Ian’s freckles have always been one of Mickey’s favourite things. He’d spent an entire summer once committing their constellations to memory.

A laugh draws him out of his daydreaming, and his eyes flicker up to find Ian watching him.

“You’re staring.”

“Fuck off, I am not.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m _not_. I was just thinking about how ugly you are.”

Ian’s lips twitch, but they don’t quite pull up into a smile. He yawns, which makes Mickey yawn too. Mickey sighs dramatically and forces himself to his feet. He downs the rest of his can and then holds out a hand to Ian.

“C’mon, Sleeping Beauty. I’m not haulin’ your ass home just ‘cause you’re too tired to move.”

Ian groans, but reaches up to take Mickey’s hand. He even helps pull himself up. As soon as they’re both steady on their feet, Mickey drops his hand in the pretence of grabbing the rest of his beer. He pretends not to notice the hurt that flashes across Ian’s face, and instead heads towards the stairs. The soft rustling of Ian’s jacket lets him know he’s being followed, and he glances over his shoulder when he reaches the top of the stairs.

“Hey, Ian?”

Ian’s eyes snap to his. “Yeah?”

“I missed you too, you fuckin’ asshole.”

Over the years, Mickey has learnt that Ian has this incredibly annoying ability of slotting into his life like he was never even gone to begin with. Like when he’s not around, there’s just this empty space with his name on it waiting for him to come back. Over the next few weeks, that proves itself to be true once again.

They fall into the same easy rhythm they’ve always had; they drink crappy beer and shoot the shit around the neighbourhood, Mickey starts going to _Patsy’s_ again and Ian starts taking his breaks with them, and one Saturday they even sneak into a showing of some dumb superhero movie they barely pay attention to because they’re too busy throwing popcorn at people. They do everything they _did_. Just… without the sex. It’s kinda driving Mickey crazy, honestly; there’s only so much time a guy can spend with his own hand.

By unspoken agreement, their hangout spot becomes that same old abandoned building they’d reunited in a couple of blocks over from Mickey’s place. Ian never outright _says_ it, but he more than implies that tensions at the Gallagher house are high – something about Debbie being pregnant and Fiona trying to talk her into getting rid of it. Mickey had outright laughed at that, because while every member of the Gallagher clan has been cursed with bull-headed stubbornness, the only one who truly rivals Ian is _Debbie_.

Mickey hasn’t quite had the balls to bring up the fact he’s got the house to himself, yet. He’s pretty sure he knows what the answer’s gonna be. Let it be known that Mickey Milkovich knows how to take a fucking hint.

Ian’s already there by the time Mickey shows up. He’d had the morning shift at _Patsy’s_ , not that it matters anymore.

“Heard you and Fiona got into it today.” Mickey says in greeting. He kicks at Ian’s foot when he gets close enough.

It’s early, more late afternoon than it is evening, but he still drops a six pack of beer into Ian’s lap before sinking onto the floor with a groan. Ian hands him a can, before he opens one of his own and takes a large gulp. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and sighs.

“Who told you?”

“Sierra.” Mickey says with a grin. He cracks his own beer open but doesn’t drink from it. “You okay?”

Ian makes a frustrated noise. “I’m so fucking _sick_ of her nagging me all the time. At home it’s ‘Ian, take you take your meds yet? Don’t forget your meds, _Ian_ , gotta take your _meds_ , Ian’, and at work it’s like every single thing I do is wrong.”

“She cares about you, man. Nothing wrong with that, right?”

“I know she does. I _know_. But sometimes it feels like she looks at me and all she can see is Monica.”

At the mention of his mother, Ian’s hand tightens around his beer can so hard it starts to crinkle.

Mickey doesn’t know much about Monica Gallagher outside of what Carl had told him that one time just after Ian had disappeared, and what the kids at school would whisper at recess. That ‘Hurricane Monica’ was only good for being batshit crazy and popping out kids she never stuck around long enough to take care of. He shifts until their shoulders are pressed together. He doesn’t know how far he’s allowed to go anymore; how much will be accepted and what could topple them over the edge into too much. The moment he feels Ian lean into him he exhales slowly.

“I dunno, man, it should be pretty easy to tell the difference. You’re the size of a goddamn giraffe and she ain’t. Right? Unless you forgot to tell me something, and she’s out there walking around like fuckin’ Lurch.”

Ian huffs out a tired laugh. Warmth blooms hot and heavy in Mickey’s chest and he ducks his head to hide his smile.

“Well, I got the place to myself now, so if you ever need somewhere to crash…”

Ian rolls his head so he can smile at Mickey. It’s a tiny little thing, but it promises that he’s about to be an absolute fuckhead. “You inviting me to a sleepover, Mick?”

“Fuck you. I’m just _saying_ that it’s there. If you want it.”

Ian’s laugh is a little louder this time. He drinks again and then starts fiddling with the tab of his can. Mickey downs the rest of his beer before motioning for Ian to pass him another. Their fingers brush as Ian hands the can over and Mickey feels like such a teenage girl for being affected by it. But he is. His breath hitches in his throat and it has the potential to get real embarrassing, real fast, but Ian pauses for a second too.

Then he coughs and draws his hand back down into his lap. “Thanks, Mick.”

Mickey ignores the disappointment bubbling away in his gut and forces himself to smile.

“It’s nothing, Gallagher.”

*

For the third time in as many minutes, Mickey’s phone vibrates against his thigh. He’s up to his elbow in a motorcycle engine, with Rex peering over his shoulder so he can point out where things are supposed to go. The only reason he hasn’t told Rex to fuck off yet is because the bike is a tourer, and Mickey would rather put up with his annoying as fuck prattling than accidentally mess something up.

His phone buzzes again and Mickey groans. He slowly untangles himself and glances over at Rex.

“Can you take over for a second, man? Gotta take care of something.”

“Sure.”

Eddie looks up from the bike she’s working on and raises an eyebrow at him. He flips her off with one hand and wrestles his phone out of his pocket with the other. Ian’s name appears at the top of the screen and he rolls his eyes. Of course.

**2:05: if I told you I was gonna kill someone, would you help me hide the body??**

**2:06: don’t ignore me, asshole. this is a serious question**

**2:07: Mickey!**

**2:07: you’re the fucking worst, you know that?**

_2:08: chill the fuck out gallagher i’m working_

_2:08: anyway i’ve already done time for your ungrateful ass and now you want me to do MORE? that’s fucking cold man_

**2:09: okay but technically I was only ASKING if you’d help**

**2:09: I haven’t actually killed anyone**

_2:09: not yet anyway. who pissed you off?_

**2:11: met one of Lip’s professors today – guy was a total asshole. asked me why I’m wasting away my life as a janitor if I’m as smart as Lip says I am**

**2:11: so murder?**

_2:12: hey man you got nothing to be shamed of so fuck him. i still ain’t helping you kill him tho_

**2:12: it just pisses me off you know? thinking he’s better than me just cause he’s got a fancy office. you’re no fun. anyway this loser’s gotta get back to work, so I’ll see you later?**

_2:13: yeah sure. now quit being so fucking annoying and go be a productive member of society_

Mickey locks his phone and slides it back into his pocket. His cheeks hurt from the way he’s been smiling, but he quickly stops when he realises both Rex and Eddie are staring at him.

“What?”

“You got a girlfriend you’re not telling us about?” Eddie asks with a grin.

“Fuck _no_.”

“You sure? ‘Cause you’re smiling like you’re talking to a girlfriend.” She pauses. “Or a boyfriend?”

He feels himself flush. “Fuck _off_.”

“So, it _is_ a boyfriend? Cool.”

“He’s not my boyfriend, Jesus _Christ_.”

Mickey shakes his head at them and goes back to the bike he’d been working on. Eddie grumbles under her breath, but thankfully doesn’t try to say anything else. Rex comes to stand next to him and leans in close.

“You know we wouldn’t care if he was, right?”

“Yeah, well, don’t worry about it. He ain’t.”

Something in his voice must give him away because Rex claps him on the shoulder.

“C’mon then, kid. Back to work. I don’t pay you to stand around looking pretty.”

“ _You_ don’t pay me shit, anyway, asshole.”

Someone starts pounding on the door just after Mickey climbs out of the shower. He pulls on a shirt and starts hopping into a pair of sweatpants on his way through the living room, his wet feet slipping a little on the hardwood floor. The scowl on his face drops away the instant the door swings open and he’s face to face with Ian. Mickey starts to smile, only for it to vanish as he takes in the various cuts and bruises on Ian’s face.

“The fuck happened to you?”

Ian tries to smile. “That offer for a place to crash still open? I don’t want Fiona seeing me like this, y’know?”

Mickey steps aside to let him in. As soon as the door is closed, he locks and bolts it. The only way anyone’s getting in now is with a key, and he just so happens to have the only copy. He turns around in time to see Ian lower himself onto the couch with a groan.

“Ian,” he says, approaching the couch slowly, “I ain’t gonna ask again. The _fuck_ happened to you?”

Ian leans his head against the back of the couch and lets out a long sigh. Mickey gives him a critical once over and raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“Got in a fight with Lip.”

“Yeah, and what else? Lip’s an alright fighter, but there’s no fuckin’ way he did all that.”

Mickey heads into the kitchen and starts digging around in the freezer for a bag of frozen peas. He doesn’t quite find what he’s looking for, but he figures the pack of tater tots he grabs instead will work just as well. The laugh Ian huffs out when he drops them onto his lap quickly turns into a wince, but he lifts them up to his face anyway. When he speaks again, his voice is a little muffled.

“I… kinda got into a car accident?”

Mickey stares at him for several seconds and then blinks rapidly at him. He rubs at his temple.

“You wanna run that by me again?”

“Well,” Ian continues, as if Mickey hadn’t even spoken, “I wasn’t _in_ the car? But I _was_ next to it when it caught on fire.”

“Wait a minute, the fuck you mean it ‘ _caught on fire_ ’? What the _hell_ , Ian?”

Ian shrugs. “There was a woman in the car, Mick. Not like I could just _leave_ her, y’know? Not when I could help. So, I got her outta there. And _then_ the car kinda… exploded?”

“You – Are you fuckin’ _nuts_? You coulda _died_ , Ian!”

“Yeah, maybe. But I didn’t. This super hot firefighter got me out.” Ian laughs at his own pun and doesn’t seem to notice the way Mickey flinches. He shifts the makeshift icepack to a new position and looks over at Mickey. “So, I think I might need a new job.”

Mickey _really_ doesn’t wanna hear about any hot firefighters, whether they saved Ian’s life or not, so he gladly latches onto the change in topic. He can rip Ian a new one for being so goddamn stupid _tomorrow_.

“Already?”

“Quit after I got into that fight with Lip.”

“Yeah, what was that even about, anyway?”

“I don’t even know – something stupid. Sometimes it doesn’t even feel like I know who he is anymore, y’know? Like, I look at him, and I _know_ that it’s Lip, but he’s not…” Ian trails off with a frustrated noise and moves the icepack a little to the left. “It’s like he’s a completely different person there. The way he talks, his _friends_ ; I spent the whole day thinking he was _embarrassed_ about me being his brother.”

Mickey shuffles across the couch so he can press his foot against Ian’s thigh. Ian tries to smile at him, but it doesn’t come anywhere close to looking genuine.

“This is it for me, right? I know that. This is as good as I’m ever gonna get now. But Lip… he’s always been meant for more than the South Side, and I. I don’t think I was ready for what that was gonna look like.”

Mickey knows it’s stupid, he _does_. But Ian looks like he’s two seconds away from falling apart, and much like every other fucking thing about him, Mickey has never been able to turn a blind eye to it. So, he leans forwards and wraps his arms around Ian’s neck, his fingers getting tangled in the fabric of his shirt. He feels Ian’s hands press against his back, and it’s like a flip gets switched because suddenly _he’s_ the one blinking back tears.

Ian’s face is tucked into the crook of his neck, and there’s a tell-tale dampness creeping down his chest, but he doesn’t care. He pulls Ian even closer and starts carding a hand through his hair.

After what could be a couple of seconds, or minutes, or even an _hour_ for all Mickey knows, he pulls back enough to look Ian in the eye.

“First of all, you’re full of shit. You kiddin’ me, Gallagher? You’re, like, the goddamn _definition_ of stubborn. You’re gonna figure out what you wanna do, and then you’re gonna go and _do_ it.” He slides a hand over Ian’s face and brushes his cheek with his thumb. “And you can forget the idea that Lip was laughing at you. There’s _no_ way. He _loves_ you, you fuckin’ dumbass.”

Ian scoffs. Mickey tightens his hold and forces Ian to make eye contact.

“When you disappeared, he was the _first_ person to go looking for you.” He pauses long enough to let that sink in. “And when you were staying here? I had to threaten to block his number if he didn’t stop askin’ if you were doing okay.”

Ian exhales shakily and nods. A few seconds later he pulls away and Mickey reluctantly lets his hands fall back into his lap.

Then Ian’s lips quirk and he raises an eyebrow. “Where’s this coming from. I thought you hated Lip?”

“I’ve never _hated_ him. Sure, he’s an asshole, but I don’t hate him.”

“Didn’t you beat the crap outta him for talking shit about Mandy once?”

“Doesn’t count, he was takin’ the hit for your pussy ass.”

“Yeah, I know.” Ian says quietly, and then immediately yawns so hard his jaw cracks. “Shit, sorry.”

“Dunno what you’re saying sorry to _me_ for. But it _is_ getting late, and I’ve got work tomorrow. I think there’re clean sheets on Mandy’s bed, if you wanna crash.”

“Sure, thanks.”

Mickey nods and pushes off the couch before he has the chance to do anything else monumentally stupid. He doesn’t let himself look back until he’s reached his bedroom door. Ian’s still on the couch, his head hung low.

“Night, Ian.”

“Goodnight, Mick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again. it's me, back at it again with another multichap i haven't finished writing. i _do_ know how this one ends, tho, so that's an improvement, right? 
> 
> anyway, housekeeping:  
> \- lurch is a reference to the addams' family  
> \- i'm pretty sure lip is canonically the one who introduces brad to patsy's but also idc i did it for the drama  
> \- this weird trend of lip and mickey hating each other ends _today_ i'm starting a movement they're actually best buds
> 
> i'm undoubtedly forgetting something but i've been working on this for like four or five days straight so my brain currently feels like it's melting out of my ears :))
> 
> hmu on twitter @ [floristmick](https://twitter.com/floristmick) or tumblr @ [floristmick](http://floristmick.tumblr.com) :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fact i managed to write 7k in a week is a miracle i'm telling you now i think i may have been possessed
> 
> for what i'm about to do to your emotions, i'm sorry, just remember it's all going to be okay i promise

Mickey wakes up to the scent of something baking, the soft smell of peanut butter and chocolate creeping underneath the crack of his door and over to his bed. His body wakes up in increments – his arms, his legs, his head. By the time he’s fully settled back into consciousness, his stomach is rumbling so loudly it drowns out the ticking of his alarm clock. He blinks blearily over at the clock in question, rubbing his palms over his face when the numbers don’t immediately jump into focus.

It’s barely even eight o’clock by the time he manages to convince himself to get out of bed, and it’s only because the hunger gnawing at his belly starts to outweigh anything else. He shuffles out into the living room, his eyes squinting against the early morning sunshine streaming in through the window, and aims for the kitchen doorway.

Unsurprisingly, Ian’s already in the kitchen. He leans against the counter, stirring a bowl of something that is a _worrying_ shade of brown. There’s flour streaked across his cheek and up towards his hairline, and he’s got what looks like a dollop of chocolate on his chin. Mickey doesn’t recognise the song he’s humming under his breath, but it doesn’t really matter anyway, because he stops as soon as he spots Mickey in the doorway.

“Morning!” He says brightly.

“Yeah, mornin’.” Mickey manages to mutter, choosing to head for the fridge. He pulls out a half-empty bottle of orange juice and takes several long gulps. “The hell’s going on in here, anyway? You open a bakery that I don’t know about?”

Ian smiles and puts the bowl down. He nods at the oven as he grabs a nearby baking tray and starts spooning the mystery mixture onto it. “I wanted to do something nice for those firefighters, y’know? They deserve our support.”

Mickey shuts the fridge with a decided snap and raises his eyebrows at Ian. “So, you wanna what? Go all Girl Scout on ‘em?”

The middle finger Ian aims at him makes him grin as he starts poking through one of the grocery bags that’s been left on the counter.

“When d’you even get all this?”

“Dropped my place earlier to pick up a bunch of shit. Stopped by the store on the way back for what I was missing.”

Mickey pauses at the mention of the Gallagher house. “Oh, yeah? How’s that goin’, by the way?”

Ian frowns down at the tray. “Got three days to figure it out. Dunno what we’re gonna do if Patrick won’t help.”

“Well,” Mickey says, clapping him on the shoulder and rubbing his thumb in slow circles, “that offer for a place to crash wasn’t just a one-time thing. This all goes to hell, you know you can stay here.”

“Really?”

The fact he even has to _ask_ makes Mickey’s chest fucking ache and he rubs his other hand over it. “Sure. Not like there’s anyone else here, anyway. Might stop me from talking to the fuckin’ walls, too.”

Ian smiles. “Thanks, Mick.”

“Don’t mention it.” He lets go of Ian’s shoulder and points at the baking tray. “You know you could just say thanks, right? Like, that word that literally just came outta your mouth works too.”

“Doesn’t feel like it’s enough.”

Mickey frowns at him. “It’s their _job_ , man.”

“I know. I just… I wanted to do something nice for them.”

It comes out as more of a question than anything else, and Mickey _hates_ it. Hates that Ian has this habit of second-guessing himself now, like he’s never entirely sure he’s doing the right thing. So, he shakes his head and tries for a smile, ignoring the guilt bubbling away in his gut.

“What’re you even making this many for, anyway? You plannin’ on testing out if they’re lethal on me first, Mary Berry?”

Ian’s bent over the tray, but Mickey sees his lips twitch. “Something like that, yeah. Was sorta hoping you’d try ‘em for me. Make sure they don’t taste like _complete_ shit.”

“So, I _am_ your lab rat. I see how it is, Gallagher.”

A timer dings and Ian glances up from what he’s doing to give Mickey a pleading look. Mickey rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically but picks up an oven mitt that had _definitely_ come from the Gallagher house anyway. He pulls a tray of golden-brown cookies from the top rack and sets them on the counter, moving quickly out of the way so that Ian can put his own tray in its place. Ian slams the door shut and wipes his hands off on his jeans with a contented hum.

“I made chocolate chunk, if that helps.”

Mickey’s stomach rumbles again, and Ian’s snort cuts off whatever he might have been about to say. They stare at each other for a couple of seconds before Ian breaks into giggles. It has been _weeks_ since he laughed so bright and clearly, and it kind of takes Mickey’s breath away, even as he does his best to join in.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“You can take it as a ‘you’d better be planning on making breakfast, too.” He pauses long enough to yawn. “And coffee.”

“Why am _I_ making breakfast?”

“You and your Julia Child shit woke me up, so I figure you owe me.”

Ian nods slowly. “That’s obviously how this works.”

“Glad we’re on the same page here. I want eggs, by the way, so you’d better not have used them all.”

Ian gives him a sarcastic salute, and it’s his turn to smile when Mickey flips him off.

Mickey’s in the middle of his third chocolate chunk cookie in half an hour when Ian drops by again later that night. They’re fucking _good_ , so sue him. He doesn’t bother taking the half-eaten cookie out of his mouth as he yanks the door open and let’s Ian inside.

“How many of those have you even had?” Ian asks with a smile as he takes his jacket off.

He hangs it on one of the hooks just inside the front door. And hadn’t _that_ been a revelation? That underneath all the layers of _filth_ his family had let build up over the years, someone had clearly once tried to make this house a home.

“None of your goddamn business is how many.” Mickey grumbles once he’s doublechecked everything is locked. He eats the other half in one go and wipes away the crumbs with his forearm as he follows Ian into the living room. Before joining him on the couch, though, he pauses. “You want a beer?”

“Sure.”

Mickey nods and wanders into the kitchen. “How’d your, uh, appreciation… thing… go?”

Ian lets out a low sigh and even though Mickey can’t see his face, he knows he’s smiling. “Good.”

After pulling two beer cans out of the fridge, Mickey slams the door shut with his foot and frowns. “That’s it? Just ‘good’? Jesus, Gallagher.”

“What do you _want_ me to say? I went, they were all super fucking hot, I hung out until they had to go on a call, and then I left?”

Mickey leans over the back of the couch so he can thump Ian in the chest with his beer. When Ian glares at him, he smiles. “Was that so difficult?”

“You’re such an asshole.”

Mickey snorts as he rounds the couch, dropping down beside Ian with a groan. He reaches for the remote on the coffee table and starts flicking through channels until he finds something that doesn’t look like complete shit. Beside him, Ian cracks open his beer and sighs.

There aren’t many things Mickey Milkovich can claim he’s good at but being fluent in Ian Gallagher’s particular brand of bullshit is one of them. And that is the sigh of an Ian who has something he wants to say but isn’t exactly sure _how_ to. Mickey generously gives him another minute or so of quiet huffing, before he groans and turns his head to look at him.

“Out with it.”

“Huh?”

“Whatever’s got you lookin’ like you ain’t been able to shit in a week. Out with it.”

Ian’s nose scrunches like he’s fighting a smile. Then his shoulders slum and he takes a sip of his beer. “Fiona thinks there might be a way of saving the house.”

Mickey frowns. “That’s good though. Right?”

“Could be. But she’s gotta borrow a hundred grand from the bank to do it.”

Mickey lets out a long whistle and Ian nods.

“And before she can do _that_ , she’s gotta give ‘em thirty-five hundred upfront for a deposit.”

“Who the fuck has that kinda money just lying around?”

“Carl.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot for his hairline. “ _Carl_ has three grand? Didn’t he _just_ get outta juvie?”

“Yeah. I know. Now Fiona’s saying she’s not even gonna _think_ about taking it, ‘cause she doesn’t know where he got. But there’s no way we’re gonna get that amount of money without Carl’s help. She just won’t listen.”

“You really wanna be using Carl’s drug money to buy back your house?”

“No. Not really. But if I’ve gotta choose between that and just… losing the house altogether, then maybe. I dunno. This is all so fucked.”

 _Fuck_ , but Mickey wants to reach out and touch him so badly that it makes his fingers fucking _itch_. He shifts his weight slightly and digs his toes into Ian’s thigh. It’s as far as he dares to go, but the way Ian relaxes almost immediately makes him sag against the couch cushions.

He finally opens his own beer and lifts it to his mouth. “So, hot firefighters, huh?”

Either Mickey is going insane or Ian is trying to hide something from him. His bets are on the second option, because as fucked up as his life _is_ , everything else has been business as usual recently. And, well. Ian’s never been very good at hiding things from him.

Contrary to popular belief, Mickey isn’t stupid. He can do the math. And the math is this: Ian went back to the firehouse this morning and is now refusing to talk about it, even though Mickey’s asked. Which either means that something really _bad_ happened and he doesn’t wanna talk about it, _or_ something really _good_ happened and he thinks it’ll upset Mickey.

Mickey has no idea what they’re even supposed to be watching, but Ian’s brow is furrowed from how hard he’s staring at the TV screen. Maybe he wasn’t wrong about the going insane thing after all, because the silence is starting to get to him.

“What the _fuck_ happened to you today?”

Ian startles and swings around to look at him. “What d’you mean?”

“You are being _real_ fuckin’ weird right now, and it’s driving me nuts. So, whatever happened, just tell me.”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, really? Nothing, huh? That why we’re sitting here in total goddamn silence?”

“We’re talking right now.” Ian says, laughing quietly when Mickey kicks him.

“Well, seeing as you’ve clearly found your tongue, you wanna start talking, Mumbles?”

Ian tenses, before heaving out a sigh. “Met the guy who saved my life today.”

“Yeah? Sweet, man.”

“It was kinda weird. Like, he didn’t think it was a big deal. At all.”

“He probably does it all the time.”

“No, I know. I just… I dunno. Thought he’d… _care_ more? I guess.”

“So, no hitting on the hot firefighter?”

Ian frowns at him. “He’s _married_.”

Mickey snorts. “As if that’s _ever_ stopped you.”

Ian’s frown turns into a glare. “To a _guy_. Had a picture of his kids in his locker, too.”

“So?”

Ian shrugs, but doesn’t answer him.

“Okay, so what else? No way you went radio fuckin’ silent just ‘cause you ran into an openly gay guy.”

“Got invited to a barbeque in a couple days. _By_ the gay guy.” He pauses. “Well, I guess _technically_ by Caleb?”

“The fuck is Caleb?” Mickey asks, already knowing he’s gonna _hate_ the answer. He lifts up a hand to rub at his temples.

“One of the firefighters. Seems nice.”

“Oh, yeah? He gay too?”

Mickey says it as a joke, but Ian’s silence tells him everything. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Nah, man. I asked. You gonna go? To this barbeque thing?”

“Maybe? I _want_ to. Would… would you come with me?”

Mickey quickly does the math and shakes his head. “Can’t. There’s a huge job comin’ in later on Thursday, and Brad wants me working extra hours. Besides, I wouldn’t wanna step on your toes.”

Ian falls silent again and it stretches out long enough that Mickey starts to feel like a dick. So he leans over to nudge his elbow into Ian’s arm.

“Sorry. For being an asshole. You should go, it might be fun.”

*

**4:38: so, uh, the house is gone. am I still okay to stay at your place?**

_4:38: shit man i’m sorry. i’m not gonna leave you on the fucking streets gallagher jesus_

**4:40: yeah, I know. sorry. I’m kinda all over the place right now**

**4:40: fuck I don’t know what we’re gonna do**

_4:41: well stressing about it ain’t gonna help anyone. you got anywhere to be right now?_

**4:41: no. Fiona’s trying not to freak out in front of us, but she’s really bad at hiding it**

_4:42: okay come meet me at work. i get off in like an hour and brad won’t give a shit so long as i finish. staying with them ain’t gonna do anything but make you feel worse_

**4:42: yeah, yeah, okay. I’ll see what I can do**

**4:50: on my way**

When Ian pushes into the shop almost forty minutes later, Mickey’s just starting to clear up for the day. Everyone else has already gone home, and Brad is tucked away in the back office doing paperwork, so Mickey has the shop floor to himself. The moment he spots Ian lurking inside the door, he grabs a cloth and tries to wipe at least _some_ of the grease from his hands.

“Hey,” he says, giving up on a particularly stubborn stain and throwing the cloth back on the workbench, “you doing okay?”

Ian huffs out a bitter laugh and then his face scrunches up like he’s trying not to cry. “Not really.”

Everything else fades away as Mickey slowly approaches him, giving him plenty of time to move out of the way if he wants to. Like Ian’s some kind of scared animal that’ll startle the second he gets too close.

When Ian doesn’t move away from him, maybe even sways _towards_ him, Mickey reaches up to wrap his arms around broad shoulders. He doesn’t even mind that he’s got to raise up on his toes a little to do it. Ian _sags_ against him, his face immediately pressing into the crook of his neck, and his hands grasping desperately at the back of Mickey’s shirt. His breath hitches and his fingers flex against the small of Mickey’s back. Mickey rests his forehead against his temple and just breathes for a minute, his shoulders starting to relax when Ian’s breathing matches him.

Mickey runs a thumb down the back of Ian’s neck and scratches the hair at the base of his skull. He feels Ian’s weight settle even more heavily against him and smiles slightly against his temple.

“This is so fucked.” Ian eventually mumbles into his shoulder.

“Worrying about it ain’t gonna do you any good, man.” Mickey says, smoothing his hands down over Ian’s shoulders and pulling back enough to look him in the eye. Ian’s eyes are red, but thankfully he’s not actually crying. “You hungry?”

Ian squints at him and shakes his head. His fingers twitch against Mickey’s hips. “Not really. Came straight from the auction house, anyway.”

“You gotta eat, Ian.” He steps back and shoves his hands into his pockets so he can’t do anything especially dumb. Like reach out and wipe away the tears clinging to Ian’s eyelashes. “Know what you want?”

“You pick.”

“No way. This is about you, so you’ve gotta choose.”

Ian scowls at him and sighs. Mickey shrugs.

“Whatever you want, man. Sky’s the fuckin’ limit.”

“You gonna buy me lobster if I ask, Mickey? Take me to some real nice place where you’ve gotta use, like, four forks for shit?”

“Sky don’t stretch quite _that_ far.”

Ian smiles. It’s small, but it’s there, and Mickey grins. Ian’s face becomes thoughtful.

“Think it’ll stretch to a burger and fries?”

Mickey narrows his eyes and pokes him in the chest. “Askin’ for a miracle here, Gallagher, but I’ll see what I can do. You okay to chill out here for, like, ten minutes? Gotta finish cleaning up.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks, man.”

Ian takes a seat on the rickety old desk chair parked behind the counter, spinning in slow circles as Mickey hurries around clearing up the rest of his shit.

Once he’s done, he holds up a finger at Ian and wanders over to Brad’s door. It’s already opened a crack, so he nudges it with his foot and pokes his head in. Brad glances up from the pile of paperwork in front of him, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

“It cool with you if I head out?”

“You finish what you were doing?” At Mickey’s nod, he leans back in his chair with a tired groan and stretches his arms above his head. “Get out of here.”

Mickey taps the doorframe as he pushes away from it. “See you tomorrow.”

“Wait, Mickey?”

He spins back around and raises an eyebrow.

“Everything okay? With Ian, I mean.”

Mickey rubs a hand over the back of his neck and shrugs. “Not really, but it’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

“‘We’, huh?” Brad asks, smiling slightly.

Mickey _doesn’t_ flush. He doesn’t. He _does_ step away from the office door, though. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

“Let me know if I can help, okay?”

“Thanks.”

“See you tomorrow, Mickey.”

Mickey gives him a final nod and waves over his shoulder as he heads toward Ian. He shakes his head at the questioning look Ian gives him.

“Ready to get outta here?”

“Let’s go.” Ian says, standing up and pushing the desk chair roughly back into place.

He follows Mickey back out onto the street and falls into step with him almost immediately. It looks kinda dumb at first, given how fucking long his legs are, but neither of them is in any real hurry. Occasionally, their shoulders bump and Mickey does his best not to smile about it. He keeps his hands in his pockets and curls his fingers around the inside lining to stop himself from doing something really gay. Like reaching out and holding Ian’s hand.

That’s not what they are, anymore, and he’s gotta learn to be okay with it.

“So, where’re we going?”

“Where’s the trust? You think I’m gonna lure you into some alley so I can murder you?”

Ian huffs out a small laugh. “Are you?”

“I’m still weighing my options.”

He sees Ian smile out of the corner of his eye. “Well, you better decide fast, ‘cause I want a milkshake.”

“Oh, we’re making demands now, huh?”

“Gotta take advantage of that sky, right?”

Mickey snorts and shakes his head.

“Better hurry the fuck up, then, before I change my mind.”

Ian steps in front of him and walks backwards for a few paces so he can grin down at Mickey. “I’m a growing boy, Mick. Even you’re not mean enough to take a milkshake away from me.”

Mickey shoves him, making him stumble a little as he turns back around to face the right way. He bumps their shoulders together again and laughs.

“Keep laughing, Chuckles, and I’m keeping that milkshake for myself.”

The diner Mickey leads him to is a tiny little mom and pop place a few blocks over from the shop. He’d found it on accident on his way home one night and had been going pretty regularly ever since. It’s the kind of place where the décor _never_ changes, the staff are permanent features, and you’ve got to know the menu by heart if you wanna order anything.

Mickey pushes through the glass door and makes his way over to his usual booth in the back corner. He slides onto the bench resting against the wall and spares the rest of the room a quick, cursory glance. Even for this place, it’s dead, but at this point Mickey does it automatically. After he’s managed to wrangle his jacket off, Ian drops down opposite him.

“Hey, Mickey! I’ll be with you in a sec, okay?” Grace, the only waitress who ever seems to work this shift, calls out.

“First name basis, huh?” Ian asks, the beginnings of a grin creeping across his face.

Mickey flips him off and looks pointedly out the window instead. There’s a young mother on the corner, wrestling with both a stroller and her toddler as she tries to cross the street. An oncoming car breaks suddenly and blares its horn at her, and even though Mickey can’t actually hear her, what she’s shouting back is obvious. Ian kicks him under the table, and he jumps slightly. He turns back with a glare, only to realise that Grace is almost at their table.

“Sorry about the wait, guys.”

“The service in this place is shit, you know that?”

Grace smiles and winks at him. “The worst. You want your usual?”

“Better make it two. Oh, and, uh,” he looks over at Ian, “what milkshake you want?”

The look Ian aims at him suggests he’s an idiot for even having to ask. Then he turns to Grace and smiles. It’s that stupid, dumb one that always charms the pants off anyone who comes into contact with it. “Strawberry, please.”

“Coming right up.”

Grace practically beams at them before she heads back to the kitchen. Ian stares at him, his eyebrows slowly creeping up his forehead towards his hairline.

“You’ve got a usual?”

Mickey shrugs. “They’ve got, like, four choices, total. Ain’t exactly _Sizzler’s_ , y’know?”

He sees Ian freeze, and winces. Mickey _knows_ they’re both thinking of the night everything had started to fall apart. Things had been so fucking _good_. And then Sammi had gone and fucked it all up. He swallows heavily and refuses to meet Ian’s eye.

“Still,” Ian says eventually, when it becomes clear that Mickey isn’t going to. He knocks their knees together under the table. “A _usual_? You an old man now, Mick?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Mickey manages to mutter around a smile.

As if taking him literally, Ian falls quiet and looks out the window. Mickey takes the chance to study him – he looks a little better now than he had back at the shop. There’s colour in his cheeks, at least, and he’s still smiling a little. But his shoulders are also slumping, and there’s a look in his eye that Mickey doesn’t like.

He reaches over and pokes Ian on the forearm to draw his attention. “Whatever’s bothering you? Out with it.”

Ian sighs and shakes his head. “It’s the house. I just… I can’t stop thinking about it, y’know? Like. It’s my _home_ and now it’s just… _gone_.”

“No way.” Mickey taps his finger against Ian’s wrist. “There’s no way this is how it ends. Fiona’s not going down without a fight, and Lip’s smart as fuck. They’ll figure something out.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Ian says, clearly not believing him. He starts playing with one of the flimsy coasters on the table, pulling at the paper until it begins to peel.

“Ian,” Mickey waits until their eyes meet, “you ain’t alone in this. You know that, right?”

Ian nods jerkily and blinks a couple times. “Thanks. Hey, you think you could help me out tomorrow before work? I’ve gotta go help pack up the house.”

“Sure, man.”

A bell dings in the background and Mickey looks up to find Grace approaching them again. She places Ian’s milkshake down in front of him first and then slides two plates onto the table.

“Lemme know if you need anything else, okay?”

“We will, thanks.” Ian says.

Grace smiles at them, nods, and then is gone as quickly as she had shown up in the first place. Ian watches her go for a second, before focussing his attention on his double cheeseburger. He lets out a small groan when he takes a bite and Mickey does _not_ let himself think about it. Instead he bites into one of his fries and takes his time chewing it.

“You’re gonna need a key,” he says as Ian takes a sip of his milkshake, “if you’re gonna stay with me, I mean. So, you don’t have to come by the shop every day.”

Ian smiles around his straw and Mickey glances away. “You’re only saying that ‘cause you think I’ll make you come here all the time.”

“Yeah, you got me. This was a one-time deal, Gallagher. Savour it.”

*

The Gallagher house looks almost exactly the same as he remembers it – the same ugly as fuck couch, the same pictures on every possible shelf, and even the same hole in the dining room wall that they still haven’t got around to fixing. Everything is the same. Except for all the cardboard boxes. Those are new.

Ian has been pale and quiet all morning, and the second they step through the front door, it seems to almost get even worse. He leads Mickey through the half-packed living room, and with every passing step he withdraws into himself even more. His shoulders hunch, his feet drag, his hands start to shake. Mickey can’t really blame him, though. This place had been home to him too, once, even for just a short while. Seeing it slowly being packed away like it’s all easily replaceable, _forgettable_ , makes something in his chest ache.

There’s someone clattering around in the kitchen – Fiona, from the sounds of the cursing. Mickey hangs back a little as Ian approaches the kitchen doorway. She’s always kind of intimidated him, Fiona. Not because she really scares him, but because he can’t imagine any of his deadbeat brothers doing for him what Fiona Gallagher has done for her siblings.

“Morning, Fi.” Ian says quietly.

A cupboard slams shut, and then Fiona is there, wrapping Ian up in a hug tight enough to have them both stumbling backwards a little.

“Hey, you made it!” She pulls back so she can hold his face between her palms and studies him with thinly veiled concern. “Lip’s already upstairs, you think you could help him out?”

“Sure.” Ian says as he glances over his shoulder at Mickey.

Fiona follows his gaze and the smile she offers him when she spots him is _tired_. “Hey, Mickey. How you been?”

Mickey shrugs, because no matter what answer he gives, it’s gonna pale in comparison to what they’re going through right now. Plus, he’s always hated being the centre of attention. Makes him feel like he’s being studied under a microscope.

He sees Ian’s mouth curve as he turns back to Fiona. “He’s a mechanic now.”

Fiona brightens. “Oh, yeah? You’re an upstandin’ citizen now, huh?”

“That’s me.”

“That’s great!” There’s a thud from upstairs and she rolls her eyes heavenward. “That better not be Carl again.”

“I’ll deal with it.” Ian promises, brushing past Fiona towards the bottom of the stairs without bothering to check if Mickey’s following him.

Fiona grabs him by the arm before he has a chance to.

“Hey,” she murmurs, casting a quick glance at where Ian has just disappeared, “thanks. For looking out for him.”

“He’s family.”

Fiona’s smile is sad, but she nods. “I know. I just. You don’t have to, so. Thanks. I’m glad he’s got you, you know, in all of this.”

Mickey feels himself flush and ducks his head, rubbing at his bottom lip. “I better get up there, before he comes looking.”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

She lets go of him and turns back to the open box on the counter, running her hands over her hair and heaving out a sigh. Mickey gives her one last look before he jogs up the stairs two at a time. It’s just as chaotic upstairs as it was downstairs, as if they’d decided to try and do everything at once and just keep shuffling between rooms.

He spots Ian straight away, untacking posters from the wall above his bed and shoving them into a box on the dresser. Lip’s standing in the bedroom doorway, fiddling with something as he laughs at whatever Ian said. He hasn’t changed a lot in the almost eight months since Mickey last saw him. Except now he dresses a little better. At the sound of Mickey’s approaching footsteps, he pauses what he’s doing and lifts his head.

He gives Mickey a greeting nod. “Hey, Mick.”

“How’s it going, College?”

Lip snorts and goes back to folding the jacket he’s holding. “Oh, you know. Smooth sailing.”

Ian drops another poster in the box and grins at Mickey over the top of Lip’s head. “He’s fucking one of his professors.”

“Didn’t realise being into old man balls was a family trait.”

“Only ‘cause you haven’t met Sean yet.”

Ian laughs and Lip grins. At Mickey’s confused look, Ian takes pity on him.

“Fiona’s new… what _is_ Sean, exactly? Boyfriend?”

“I don’t even know, man. Not sure _she_ knows, either.”

Mickey moves further into the room, grunting when Ian thrusts a box at him. He drops it on the edge of the desk and starts shoving various knickknacks into it.

Behind him, Lip clears his throat. “Anyway, how was prison? Still gay?”

Mickey looks over his shoulder and smirks a little. “You know, I think I might be straight now, actually. All those pussies, y’know?”

There is a very small, very bitter part of him that’s happy about the way he sees Ian freeze from the corner of his eye. A very small, very bitter part that he does his best to ignore as he watches Lip rub a hand under his nose to try and hide his smile.

“Jesus, Casanova. Leave some for the rest of us, alright?”

“Why? You and your fossil of a boyfriend trying to see how much action you can get on the way to the retirement home?”

“You got me.”

Mickey’s smiling when he turns back to his packing. It falls quiet for a while, with each of them focussed on their own task. After a while, Ian groans and steps away from the dresser.

“I gotta take a leak.”

“Already? You _just_ got here.”

Ian shrugs. “Like my bladder gives a shit.”

“That _is_ kinda the point.” Lip says, laughing as he dodges Ian’s fist. As soon as the bathroom door has clicked shut, Lip is at his side, leaning against the desk. “How’re you holding up? Really?”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“With _Ian_ , asshole.”

“What? You gonna start lecturing me about hanging out with him, now?”

“I’m not his mom, Mickey.” Lip rolls his eyes and runs a hand through the birds nest he calls hair. “And no, actually. I think you’re good for him.”

And that? That blindsides Mickey a little bit. So much so that he’s kinda left speechless. Lip laughs quietly at the look on his face and he scowls.

“I’m just not so sure if _he’s_ good for _you_ , right now.” He holds up his hands when Mickey’s scowl turns into a glare. “He’s a stubborn asshole when he’s thinks he’s right, and I know he’s got it in his head that he can’t date anyone right now.”

Mickey remembers the way he’d said that Caleb asshole’s name and shakes his head. Not so sure on that one, Lip.

“Just… take care of yourself first, okay?”

There has always been… _something_ … between the two of them. An understanding, of sorts. An understanding between two older brothers growing up on the South Side, just doing their best to look out for younger siblings. But whereas Mickey has always done it out of obligation and the unspoken rule that Milkoviches take care of their own or face the consequences, Lip has always been different. Like he is Ian’s – and Debbie’s, and Carl’s, and Liam’s – big brother, and that is just what big brothers _do_. Like there can be no other possible outcome to the equation that is Lip Gallagher.

It’s one thing to know about it in the abstract sense – to have seen it first-hand, even, when Ian first got sick _and_ when Fiona got arrested – it is something else entirely to have that concern focussed directly on him. It’s fucking _weird_. Mickey isn’t used to people being worried about him just for the sake of it. He can count the number of people who have ever _genuinely_ cared about him on one goddamn hand, in fact. And the idea that he can now add Lip fucking Gallagher to that list? Hurts his head, a little.

So, he does what he does best. He shrugs it off. “Don’t worry about it, man. I got it handled.”

Lip makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat that sounds _eerily_ close to the one Ian makes, but thankfully doesn’t saying else. Although Mickey thinks that probably it’s mostly to do with the fact his phone starts buzzing in his pocket before he has a chance to come up with something clever.

“Oh, shit.” Lip mutters, lifting the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

Mickey zones him out for the next few minutes.

Ian steps out of the bathroom as Lip hangs up and shoves his phone back into his pocket. “Hey, man, I gotta head out for a bit.”

“You’ll be back later, though, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, I’ll be here to pick up your slack.”

“Fuck you. Looks like it’s just gonna be you and me, Mickey.”

“Oh, no.” Mickey deadpans, turning around to look at them. “My worst nightmare.”

Lip smiles. “I’ll see you guys later, alright?”

“Have fun choking on old man dick!” Mickey calls after him as he disappears down the stairs. He hears Lip laugh and grins.

Ian’s staring at him in a way that makes him flush.

“The fuck are you looking at?”

“You really don’t hate him.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “I _told_ you I didn’t.”

“I know. I just… didn’t think you _meant_ it.”

“Yeah, okay. You wanna chitchat more or you wanna get this over with?”

“What crawled up your ass and died?” Eddie asks him when he stomps into work later that morning.

He scowls at her but doesn’t answer. Brad looks up from the bike he’s working on and frowns at him.

“You okay?”

“Fuckin’ _fine_.” Mickey snaps. “Everything is fuckin’ _fine_.”

“You sure?”

Rex drops his tools onto his workbench and disappears into the back room. Mickey takes a deep breath and squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, Rex is walking towards him with a bottle of water held out in front of him.

“Sorry, man. It’s the best we got.”

Mickey accepts it with a sigh, uncapping it so he can take several long gulps. The plastic crinkles under his fingers. Brad points at a stool with the wrench he’s holding.

“Sit.”

Mickey groans but does as he’s told. He lets the bottle dangle from two fingers and rubs at his temple with his other hand. Brad scoots across the floor on his own stool until he’s only a couple feet away.

“Talk.”

“Do I have to?”

Brad snorts, but his frown doesn’t lighten up. “If it’s gonna effect the way you work, then yes.”

“This about your boyfriend?” Eddie smirks when he flips her off. She’s known Ian for _weeks_ now, but she still refuses to call him anything else.

“He ain’t my fuckin’ boyfriend. How many times have I gotta tell you?”

“ _Was_ he?” Rex asks. He hasn’t gone back to his work, yet, but scurries off when Brad aims a look at him. He peeks over the top of his bike. “What? He could’ve been.”

“Jesus Christ, you people are so _fuckin’_ annoying. Yeah. Okay. _Fine_. He _was_ my boyfriend. And now he ain’t. Happy now?”

“What does that have to do with you looking like you wanna kill somebody?”

Mickey bites the inside of his bottom lip and soothes the sting with his tongue. Fuck it. “He got invited to some barbeque by a gay firefighter. Thinks he’s gonna hook up with him.”

“But,” Eddie says, because of course she does, “if you’re not even together anymore, why does it matter who he’s screwin’?”

“It don’t.” Mickey says, swallowing thickly. “He can fuck who he wants.”

Brad smiles sadly at him. “You really love him, huh?”

He blinks rapidly and rubs his palms across his eyes. His voice cracks as he says, “Yeah, I really do.”

“You ever tell him that?”

Mickey’s laugh comes out choked and bitter. “You could say that. Dumped my ass right after I told him.”

“Wow, what an asshole.”

Mickey shakes his head at Eddie and takes another sip of water. “It’s not… It ain’t like that. Not really. Thought he was doing me a favour. He’s… He’s sick, and he’s got it into his stupid _fuckin’_ head that that means he’s not good enough for me anymore, or some shit.”

“Is he? Kinda sounds to me like you dodged a bullet.”

“Nah, you don’t… you don’t get it. Without him, I’d still be living under my old man’s thumb, doing _whatever_ he wanted me to. Fuck, I’d probably be in prison. For real. Or dead. Ian… Ian set me _free_.”

It’s like a dam bursts, because suddenly it’s all tumbling out of him, like he’s just been waiting for an excuse to talk about it. He doesn’t go into the gritty details, because there are parts of it that he _never_ wants to think about again, and Ian’s illness isn’t his to talk about. But most of it – the _really_ important parts – come pouring out of his mouth with worrying ease.

When he’s done, he downs the rest of his water and wipes the back of a hand over his mouth. Rex is staring at him like he’s grown an extra head and he glares at him.

“What?”

“I’ve _never_ heard you talk this much before. You must _really_ be in love with him.”

Mickey flushes. “Yeah, so?”

Brad clears his throat, interrupting them. “Mickey… you think you’re gonna be okay to work today?” If not, just say the word and you can have the rest of the day off. I’ll deal with Larry.”

“No, I wanna be here.” It’s kinda surprising just how much he actually _means_ that. “Gives me something else to think about, y’know?”

“Okay.” Brad says, scooting back towards his bike. “Get over here, then. I got something I wanna show you.”

Mickey’s in the middle of cooking dinner when Ian comes home. ‘Cooking’ might be a bit of a stretch to some, but he thinks heating up a shitty frozen pizza totally counts. He’s pulling a bottle of beer out of the fridge when Ian appears in the kitchen doorway.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Mickey closes the fridge door with his foot and stands back up, “how was the – what the _fuck_ happened to you this time?”

Ian smiles a little. “There was a… disagreement?”

“And you couldn’t just stay outta it?”

He puts his beer down on the counter and crosses the kitchen so he can study the bruise around Ian’s eye. The lighting is super shitty, so he grabs Ian by the chin and turns his head to get a better look. It’s nowhere near as bad as it first looked, and it’s _definitely_ not the worst Ian’s ever had. But he still fucking hates it.

“You ice it?”

“Yes, _Mom_.” Ian huffs out an exaggerated sigh, but his smile grows. He keeps his eyes on Mickey’s face as Mickey pokes and prods at him. “Oh, hey, you won’t believe who I ran into today.”

“Someone’s fucking fist by the looks of it. Jesus, Ian.”

“No, you asshole.” Ian considers him for a moment. “Okay, yeah. Technically. But not what I meant. I ran into Tony.”

Mickey meets his eye and gives him a blank look.

“Tony Markovich? The cop? Busted me and Lip for car theft, once.”

Now _that_ Mickey remembers. He grins. “Oh yeah? What he want with you this time? Gotta warn you, man, now’s not the time to start thinking about grand theft auto.”

Ian breathes out a quiet laugh, and Mickey watches the way his mouth curves. He is suddenly _painfully_ aware that he still has his hand on Ian’s face, but he can’t quite bring himself to move.

“ _No_. He’s, uh. Gay now? I think.”

“This where you tell me about some grand plan to seduce him, so you’ve got a guy on the inside?”

“Hard pass. He’s fucked Fiona.”

Mickey fights a grimace so he can raise his eyebrows. “Sharing is caring, right?”

“You’re such an asshole.” Ian shakes his head, dislodging Mickey’s hand.

The movement seems to remind him of how close they’re standing, because he clears his throat and steps back. Mickey forces his hand back down to his side.

“Okay, _other_ than weird gay cops and you getting hurt _again_ , how was it?”

The way Ian tenses and stares down at his feet makes Mickey’s stomach drop.

No.

Nononono.

“I, uh. Caleb. Kinda asked me out?”

Mickey swallows around a suddenly dry throat and tries to smile. “That’s… Congrats, man.”

Ian glances up at him and whatever life had been in his eyes is gone now. He looks hollow again. Mickey steps back and goes over to retrieve his beer. He takes a heavy gulp. Tries his _best_ not to scream.

“Mickey…”

“Nah, man. I’m happy for you. Really.”

“I don’t have to go. I can cancel.”

Mickey shakes his head, his eyes swimming. “It’s cool, Gallagher. Not like we’re boyfriend and girlfriend here, you can do what you want.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop fuckin’ _apologising_ for moving on. It’s not your problem, alright, it’s _mine_.”

Suddenly desperate to be alone, Mickey pushes past him so he can escape to his room.

“What about your pizza?”

Mickey’s laugh is dangerously close to a sob as he swings his door shut. “Not hungry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just wanna say thanks for all the kind words you guys left on the last chapter it, they warm my cold, dead heart like nothing else <3
> 
> can you believe i initially forgot to link my socials like a goddamn clown??  
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/floristmick) | [tumblr](http://floristmick.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry this took so long, this chapter is a fucking _beast_ and the bane of my existence and i am mildly terrified that this chapter is awful and i should erase my entire existence
> 
> shoutout to my discord fam for being my literal moral support i don't know how this would've got done without y'all
> 
> special shoutout to my personal cheering section [willa](http://twitter.com/buzzcutian), [michelle](http://twitter.com/gcldendays) and [taylor](http://twitter.com/ianlovebot)

_Mick_ _–_

_I’m gonna stay with Lip for a couple days. Think that’s probably for the best, right? I don’t wanna keep hurting you, but that’s the only thing I do anymore. I know you don’t want me to say it, but I am sorry for being such an asshole. I really am. I’ll come by for the rest of my shit later, stay outta your way._

_–_ _Ian_

Mickey slumps down at the kitchen table, letting the half-empty mug of coffee at his elbow grow cold as he reads and rereads the note Ian left for him.

Ian’s gone.

Ian is _gone_.

And it is _all_ Mickey’s fault, because he can’t get a fucking grip on his own emotions. Because he’d been _stupid_ enough to believe he could just sit back and watch Ian move on, move _away_ , from that they’d had. Like that has _ever_ worked for him.

There has been an inferno in his chest since that first moment he saw Ian again, blazing hot enough to leave his ribcage soot-stained and charred, his heart beating in rapid time to try and counteract the damage. And he hasn’t ever said anything about it, because why would he? Why _would_ he when the only thing he has ever loved _is_ Ian? The only way Mickey knows _how_ to love is through the burning.

But now he’s gone and fucked that up, too, because Ian is _gone_.

He drops the note onto the table with a groan and rubs at his temples. Takes a sip of coffee, even though it clings cold and slimy to his tongue. His phone sits on the table, taunting him, and after a moment of glaring at it, he picks it up.

It sits heavy in his palm as he goes through his meagre contact list, his thumb hovering over Ian’s name. The screen goes dark for the third time in the last minute, and he immediately taps it back on again. With a sigh, he hits the little green call button and raises the phone to his ear.

While he waits to be put through to voicemail – because Ian’s not actually gonna _answer_ , obviously – he watches the fan in the kitchen window spin in lazy circles. It’s still pretty early, but it’s already shaping up to be hot out today; summer making one last feeble stand against fall as it begins to slip between the cracks and blanket the day in its embrace.

Mickey squeezes his eyes shut at Ian’s voicemail greeting and breathes out through his nose. When Ian’s voice fades and is replaced by the irritating as shit beep, he opens his eyes again and stares blankly at a brown stain on the opposite wall.

“You’re an asshole.” He doesn’t mean for that to be the first thing he says, but it’s what ends up coming out anyway. “For leaving. You’re a fuckin’ _asshole_. You didn’t have to, y’know. It’s not like I’m gonna, I dunno, kick you out or anything just ‘cause you’re getting laid. Fuckin’ _Christ_ , Ian. This is on _me_ , not you, and I know you think leaving is the best choice you’ve got, but it really _ain’t_. So, call me the fuck _back_. I’m not chasing after you ‘cause you’ve decided to be a dumb bitch about it.”

He hangs up and decides he’s had enough moping for one morning. Dumping the coffee mug in the sink to be dealt with later, he runs a hand over his face, and for one single second just lets himself breathe.

Then he goes to have a shower and get ready for work.

There’s someone banging around in Mandy’s room when Mickey lets himself in through the front door later that afternoon. He kicks his shoes off just inside the door and pads down the hall to stand in Mandy’s doorway. It’s open and he leans a shoulder against the jamb, arms crossed over his chest as he watches Ian throw things into a duffle bag.

When Ian doesn’t immediately notice him standing there, he coughs.

Ian freezes, and then his head jerks up. He licks his lips. There are huge bags under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept and Mickey’s heart clenches. “Hey.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow. “‘Hey’? That all you got?”

“I. Yes? What’re you doing here?”

“This might surprise you, Gallagher, but I _live_ here?”

Ian looks like he’s torn between a smile and a sigh. He settles on zipping his bag shut. “Why aren’t you at _work_?”

Mickey shrugs, because like _fuck_ he’s gonna admit that Brad sent him home early for being too distracted. “Why? Hopin’ to sneak out without running into me?”

“I’m not _sneaking_.” Ian says, but avoids meeting Mickey’s eye.

“You sure? ‘Cause this,” Mickey waves a hand at him, “feels a lot like sneaking. You leaving in the middle of the night and avoiding phone calls for fun now?”

Ian’s lips twitch up into a tired smile. “Not sure that’s gonna help this time.”

Ian stiffens, his hand snapping to his pocket. He gives Mickey a wide-eyed look.

Mickey scoffs and smiles, although there’s nothing happy in it. “You didn’t even listen to it, did you?”

“I meant to.” At Mickey’s snort, he shakes his head. “I _did_. But something came up with Lip before I had a chance.”

Now that he _does_ believe. If he’s being honest with himself, Mickey has always been kinda jealous of just how quick Ian and Lip are to throw everything else aside for each other. That they’ve always had each other’s back before _anything_ else. So, Ian getting caught up in whatever drama Lip’s got himself into this time? Mickey buys it.

“He okay?” He asks, because as much as Lip’s concern might have freaked him the _fuck_ out yesterday, he can do it too, thank you very much. Because they’re friends. Or, some shit.

Ian shrugs. “They found out he’s sleeping with one of his professors. He’s gotta go to some kinda hearing tomorrow.”

“Shit. Lucky he’s so good at sucking old man dick then, huh? Gonna need a skill like that to stay outta trouble.”

Ian’s lips twitch up into a tired smile. “Not sure that’s gonna help much this time.”

“That serious?”

“I dunno. Lip went to talk to her, but I haven’t heard anything since.” He picks the back up by the strap and slings it over his shoulder. “I should… get outta your way.”

Mickey pushes off the doorframe and blocks his exit. “Look, you don’t hafta go. I want you to stay.”

“Mickey…” Ian trails off, shaking his head..

“ _Ian_.” Mickey knows he sounds desperate, he _knows_ he does, but the idea of Ian walking out that door scares him more than anything. “Don’t.”

Don’t leave again. Not _again_. _Please_ not again. Mickey’s heart wouldn’t survive the fallout.

And Ian, beautiful, _wonderful_ Ian, who has always been able to read him like a book, nods. He drops his bag back on the bed. The way he’s looking at Mickey makes his fucking heart _ache_. It’s all soft edges and gentle disbelief. Like, the fact Mickey’s even _here_ is a miracle.

He hates it. Hates what it does to him. Hates that Ian’s looking at him like that when they’re _not together_. _Hates_ that Ian doesn’t even know he’s doing it. He wants it to stop. Wants to be able to _breathe_ again.

He wants… He never wants Ian to look at him any other way.

The breath lodged in his throat comes out in one long sigh, strong enough to make his shoulders drop. He uncrosses his arms, lets his hands hang loosely at his sides.

“Okay.”

Ian’s mouth quirks into a tiny little smile. “Okay.” The smile drops away and he shuffles his feet. “I gotta get ready… for my…”

Mickey shrugs, tries for a smile that doesn’t feel at all successful. He steps out of the way. “Sure.”

Ian gives him a grateful nod and starts digging through his bag for a shirt.

“We should probably… _talk_ … about this. Right?” Mickey hates that he has to ask, hates that this is where they _are_.

But it is, and if it’s the only way he’s gonna get to keep Ian in his life, then he’ll do it. He’s done a lot worse for a lot less.

“Yeah, probably.”

“Alright, well. I’ll… let you get on with whatever.”

Mickey steps out of the room and starts to turn around, but Ian calling his name has him glancing back over his shoulder.

“Thanks. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“Man, shut the fuck up.”

*

Mickey refuses to wallow. He _refuses_. Debbie had been right when she’d told him he couldn’t drink Ian away. So, he’s not gonna try it again.

Ten minutes after Ian leaves, he calls Lip. He doesn’t mean to, but one second he’s staring at a black TV screen, and the next his phone is in his hand and he’s scrolling through his contact list. Some people might think it’s pathetic that he only has, like, five numbers, but he likes to think of it as being overly organised. What’s the point in keeping hold of numbers you’re never gonna fucking need?

“Mickey?” Lip asks, voice slightly tinny through the shitty speaker. “Everything okay? Nothing’s happened to Ian, has it?”

Mickey doesn’t know why he’s here. Doing this. He considers hanging up, because when has he had a conversation in the last five years with Lip Gallagher that hasn’t somehow led back to Ian.

The silence stretches on for a few seconds, until Lip sniffs on the other end.

“Everything’s fine.” Mickey runs a hand through his hair and huffs out a breath.

“Then, and don’t take this the wrong way, Mick, why’re you callin’?”

“I… don’t know, honestly. Ian just went out.”

“Oh.” Lip’s voice is _immediately_ understanding. “You okay?”

Mickey scoffs. “The fuck do you think?”

“Yeah, stupid question.”

“Heard your geriatric boyfriend’s in trouble.”

Lip laughs, although it’s a little strained around the edges. “You could say that.”

“Are _you_ okay?” Mickey knows it sounds weird coming from him. He does. But, well, Lip had tried to look out for him and Mickey’s not big on owing favours.

It’s Lip’s turn to scoff and say, “The fuck do you think?”

Mick smiles a little, because, okay, _yeah_. That had been a pretty stupid question.

“What’re you doing right now?” Lip asks suddenly.

“Well, I called _you_ , so clearly I got an excitin’ evening planned.”

Lip laughs again, and this time it sounds a little clearer. “You wanna hang out?”

“With you? In person? Right now?”

“Why the fuck not, right? Not like either of us have better things to do.”

Mickey considers this for a moment. Then he shrugs, even though Lip can’t see him. “Sure. Fuck it.”

“Fuck it.”

Lip rattles off an address on the other side of town, a room number, and the promise of beer. When Mickey hangs up, he’s kinda surprised to realise he’s looking forward to hanging out with _Lip_ fucking _Gallagher._

It takes Mickey five minutes to knock on Lip’s door. He knows how dumb it is. That _this_ is where he starts having second thoughts, after coming all this way in the first place. But, still. There’s something about being on a college campus – of being in a fucking _dorm building_ that sets his teeth on edge. People like him are not meant to be in places like this.

People like Mickey Milkovich do not escape places like the South Side of Chicago, unless it is to go to prison or the grave. He isn’t meant to _be_ here, and the fact that he is makes his skin itch. So, he paces outside of Lip’s door and he _thinks._ About going home, about staying, about what the fuck he’s getting himself into here.

And the answer to that is that he doesn’t _know_. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. Once upon a time he could have used Ian as an excuse – it’s easy to ignore your true intentions when there’s someone else to worry about. That you aren’t lonely as _shit_ , despite being surrounded by people, even when they do welcome you with open arms because you all care about the same thing.

But he doesn’t have that excuse anymore. He _can’t_ pretend he’s just updating his boyfriend’s older brother on how he’s doing today. Because that’s not what they are anymore, and Mickey _doesn’t know what he’s doing here_. Maybe prison fucked with his head more than he’d first thought.

He doesn’t even decide to knock on the door by himself. A group of college kids – freshmen, probably, from how baby faced and innocent they all look – rounds the corner at the other end of the hall. Mickey knows how people like that look at him, what they see without really looking, and he is _not_ in the mood to be stared at like a science experiment. So, he raises a fist and pounds on Lip’s door.

“College!”

He spends the several seconds it takes Lip to open the door glaring down the hallway at the group of kids. And they are, he realises with a sudden rush of clarity. They are, at most, two years younger than him but it may as well be a lifetime for how different they are. Like they haven’t had an entire lifetime of fighting for everything they have, and Mickey can’t figure out if he hates them for what they’ve got, or himself for what he doesn’t.

Lip opens the door, a cigarette dangling precariously out of his mouth as he runs a hand through his hair. “Hey.”

He holds the door open wide enough for Mickey to slip past him and then pretty much _slams_ it shut again. Mickey takes in the room – the single lamp in the corner, the expensive looking computer on the desk, the pile of clothes beside an unmade bed, the painting of a naked chick on the wall.

“You want a beer?” Lip asks, brushing past him. He glances over his shoulder when Mickey doesn’t immediately answer him and takes the cigarette out of his mouth.

Mickey tears his eyes away from the painting on the wall and manages a nod. Lip’s mouth twitches into that amused little smirk he gets when he thinks someone’s being funny without meaning to be. Mickey raises an eyebrow at him and runs his tongue across his teeth, but Lip just shakes his head and goes to pull two beers out of the minifridge under his desk.

“Here.”

“Thanks.” Mickey fumbles to catch the can and narrows his eyes at the huff of laughter Lip lets out.

Lip cracks open his beer and takes a long gulp, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Mickey’s fingers play with the tab of his own, but he can’t quite bring himself to open it. Lip lowers the can and sets it on the edge of the desk, wiping a hand over his mouth.

The silence isn’t exactly awkward – they’ve known each other too long and been through too much for that to _ever_ be true. But there’s something in it, a tension maybe, that stops it from being entirely comfortable. They watch each other from opposite ends of the room, these two broken, lonely men on the brink of something neither of them truly understands. And that’s what they are now, Mickey realises with a jolt. Men. And isn’t _that_ a trip? That they’ve known each other since kindergarten and they’re _still_ stuck in each other’s orbit.

They’d been friends once, when they were kids. Before ‘Milkovich’ and ‘Gallagher’ had been anything more than last names. Before being one meant you couldn’t talk to the other. For fuck’s sake, they’d even joined the same little league team together. He doesn’t remember exactly when they’d stopped being LipandMickey and become just Lip and just Mickey, but it had probably been his fault.

After a minute of them just _staring_ at each other, Lip coughs. “So, this is pretty… weird… right?”

Mickey snorts and finally opens his beer, although he still doesn’t drink any. “Not exactly what you had planned for tonight, huh?”

“Uh, not really.” Lip spins his desk chair around and sinks onto it. He points to his bed. “You _can_ sit down, you know.”

Mickey smiles before he can stop himself, but shuffles over to the edge of the bed and sits down. “ _Thanks._ ”

“So, how’re you holding up?”

“We’re getting straight into it, huh?” Mickey asks, finally taking a sip of beer.

Lip clenches his cigarette between his teeth and roots around in his shirt pocket for a lighter. He lights up and takes a deep drag, letting the smoke sit in his lungs for a couple seconds before it billows out of his nose. Mickey isn’t expecting him to roll the chair forward and offer him the cigarette, but he does.

“You wanna make small talk first? Sit around catching up on all the shit that’s happened to you today?”

Mickey hands the cigarette back over, blowing smoke up towards the ceiling. “I guess not. You gonna go first, or should I?”

“You wanna hear about _my_ problems?”

“What? Like you really wanna hear about _mine_?”

Lip grins, quick as a flash. “Sure. Why not? Tell me about your problems, Mickey.”

Mickey studies him carefully before nodding. “Alright, fine. Ian didn’t just go out. He’s on a date.”

Lip nods. “With that firefighter.”

“You knew?”

“Course I did. We tell each other everything.”

There’s something in the way Lip is looking at him that he doesn’t like. Like, he’s been stretched out and torn open under a microscope. But, well. He’s been getting the same kinda look from Lip goddamn Gallagher since he was five years old and thought shoving crayons up Nicky Harris’ nose was the funniest thing in the world.

He’s learnt to ignore it, is the thing.

“Are you… okay with it?” Lip asks.

And Mickey _knows_ on some deep, buried level that he does _not_ wanna explore right now in case he loses his fucking mind, that it’s because Lip _cares_ about him. That for some fucking reason that Mickey is _never_ going to understand, Lip has chosen to care about him outside of his relationship with Ian.

“Not like I gotta choice, right? He’s doing his own thing. Movin’ on, or whatever.”

Lip’s mouth pulls up into that smile again, and Mickey frowns at him.

“What?”

Lip shakes his head. Blinks a couple times. “Nothing. I just… I don’t think that’s possible. Him moving on, I mean.”

Mickey’s mouth goes dry. The beer does nothing to help, but he drinks it anyway. “The _fuck_ are you talking about?”

“I mean… Okay. We both know Ian is a _stubborn_ asshole when he wants to be, right? And, right now, he’s got it in his head that he’s the worst thing in the world for you. It’s not about him _wanting_ to move on. Not really.”

“So, what?” You saying that one day he’s gonna figure his shit out and come crawlin’ back?”

“I don’t think it’s outta the realm of possibility. Look, I’m not. I’m not saying that you should just sit around and wait for him – I meant what I said about looking after yourself first. But the way he feels about you? That doesn’t just… go away.”

Mickey has… _no_ idea what to do with that. Because the thing is, is that Mickey has always known Ian’s it for him. He’d handed over his heart before he even really knew what love _meant_ and has never thought about asking for it back.

Lip studies him for a minute, before he stamps out the butt of the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray on the desk.

“You wanna talk about my problems now?”

“Fuckin’ _please_.”

*

He gets home a little later than planned, and by the time he unlocks his front door, Ian is already on the couch with a beer in hand. The clothes he wore out on his date are gone, replaced with a pair of sweatpants and a sweater that Mickey is pretty sure is _his_. Unless Ian’s suddenly into clothes that are too small for him.

“Hey,” he says, toeing his shoes off and shuffling into the living room.

Ian frowns at him. “Hey. Where’ve you been?”

“Lip’s place.” Mickey smiles at the way Ian’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh, yeah? You best buds now?”

“Oh, definitely. We braided each other’s hair and talked about boys.”

Ian grins. He tilts his head against the back of the couch and stares up at the ceiling.

“How’d your, uh, date go?”

Ian’s eyes snap to his, grin disappearing in an instant. “Shitty.”

Mickey tries not to react to that. Tries not to look happy about it, even though he _is_ , and he feels like an asshole for it. Tries his absolute fucking _best_ to look sympathetic. He might _hate_ the idea of Ian being happy with someone else, but if it’s what Ian wants, then the least he can do is be nice about it.

“Sucks, man. I’m sorry.”

Ian pats the couch cushion next to him and huffs out a sigh when Mickey sits down.

“So, what happened?”

Ian chews on his bottom lip. “You sure you wanna hear about it?”

“It’s important to you, right? So, yeah. I do. I might fuckin’ _hate_ it, but. I can deal. Just… spare me the details if you two start banging, okay?”

For Ian, he could – he _would_ – deal.

“Okay. So, we went to this real nice place, right? Like, the kind where they give you a fucking _wine menu_ , like you’re meant to know what any of it means.”

Mickey snorts before he can stop himself, and Ian’s lips twitch.

“And… I don’t know what _any_ of the shit on the menu is, ‘cause it’s all, like, French shit. So, I feel like a _total_ idiot already, and then he starts askin’ me questions.”

“You mean he was tryin’ to get to know you? Like, the kinda shit you’re _supposed_ to do on a first date? Jesus, Gallagher.”

“Shut up.” Ian complains, but at least he’s actually smiling now. “I _know_ that’s what you’re meant to do, but it felt like I was being interrogated or something. But… I dunno. I guess I’ve never _had_ to do it before? The getting to know someone thing.”

Mickey bites the inside of his bottom lip to stop himself from smiling at that, even if it does sting a little. He doesn’t _remember_ ever having to go through the ‘getting to know you’ stage of dating Ian. That one summer they’d had before things had started going to shit had been more about getting laid as much as possible and hanging out in places they shouldn’t’ve have been than anything else. They’ve known each other, on and off, since they were kids. They’d never _had_ to do that part.

“What he wanna know? Your favourite colour? Favourite food? Embarrassing childhood stories?”

Ian shakes his head with a laugh. “Shut the fuck up.”

Mickey holds his hands up, grinning. “That why you’re home so early?”

And it should feel strange, how easily the word ‘home’ rolls off his tongue. But it doesn’t. Home has been wherever Ian is for a while now, and it makes something warm settle in his chest.

“Nah, he had to go on a call. We didn’t even get to order anything. Took me with him, though.”

There’s something in Ian’s eyes that stops Mickey from being sarcastic about it. He hasn’t seen that look in such a long time that it knocks the fucking breath outta him. An… excitement, maybe. A light. It’s been so fucking long since Mickey’s seen him _excited_ about something that he’s suddenly swallowing around a lump in his throat to speak.

“Oh, yeah?” He asks because he wants to know. _Needs_ to know what put it there, even on the off chance that it hurts.

Ian’s smile is small, but it’s _there_ and it is one of the most beautiful things Mickey has ever seen. Mickey listens to him ramble about the ambulance, and the way he’d helped a woman with a broken arm, and how it made him _feel_. And with every passing second, he watches Ian come back into himself. He’s not the same as before he ran off to join the army, obviously. He’s never gonna be _that_ person again. But, he’s similar. At least, his determination is.

So, when he says he’s thinking he might wanna be a firefighter, Mickey nods. Smiles. Reaches out across the space between them and claps him on the shoulder.

“I think you should do it.”

Ian startles. Looks up at Mickey and smiles again. He tilts his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, man. You’d be good at it.”

“You think so?”

That self-doubt again. Mickey _hates_ it. He kicks Ian in the thigh. Not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to make Ian thump him in the shin.

“Have I ever lied to you? ‘Course I fuckin’ think so. Your default setting is throwing yourself in front of danger.”

Ian ducks his head and smooths his hands over his thighs. “Thanks. It means… It means a lot. From you.”

Mickey feels himself flush and deliberately glances away, turning his head so Ian can’t see him smile.

“So,” Ian clears his throat, “how was Lip?”

“Freaking the _fuck_ out about this whole committee thing.”

“He tell you that?”

“Hell no, but I’m not fuckin’ _blind_. He’s good at hiding shit, but he was practically crawling outta his skin by the time I left.”

Ian looks like he wants to say more, but his stomach rumbles before he has a chance. Mickey raises an eyebrow at him.

“You eat yet?”

“Never got a chance.”

“You wanna order pizza?”

“Fuck yeah. As long as you’re buying.”

Mickey snorts, leaning forward to snag Ian’s beer off the coffee table. He flips Ian off when he protests.

“Is that how we’re playing it?”

Ian shrugs, one corner of his mouth hitching upwards. “You’ve gotta be nice to me, I’m unemployed.”

“For now.”

Mickey actually _pays_ for the pizza and garlic bread they order, although he refuses to give the delivery guy a tip. He might be a reformed man, or whatever, but he’s not _that_ reformed. He drops the open pizza box on the table, uncaring of whether he knocks Ian’s beer over or not, and then throws himself back onto the couch.

“Hey,” Ian pauses, and Mickey _knows_ it’s because he’s scared of whatever he’s about to say ruining the mood, “you think we should have that talk now?”

“Sure, I guess.” He says, licking grease from his thumb just to have something to do. “Boundaries, or whatever, right?”

“Yeah. I don’t… I don’t know what you want here, Mick. So. Maybe you should start?”

Mickey doesn’t say anything for a few moments. He studies a crack in one of the table legs. “Okay. You gotta stop running out on me, man. You almost gave me a fuckin’ heart attack. We’re _gonna_ argue about shit sometimes. You can’t just… disappear.”

He doesn’t mention the months after Ian went missing the first time. The constant worry that one day he was gonna wake up and see Ian’s name in the fucking obits or some shit. Or that one of the Gallaghers would drop by to let Mandy know they’d heard from him, and he’d have to pretend he didn’t care. The _relief_ he felt when they finally found Ian, coupled with the fear of the unknown because something was wrong, and nobody knew how to fix it.

He mentions none of these things, because he already knows how much Ian hates himself for the shit he did. For the shit he had _no choice_ in doing.

Ian nods slowly. “Yeah, okay. I can try.”

“Ian,” Mickey sighs, and rubs at the corner of his mouth, “if I didn’t want you here, I wouldn’t have fuckin’ offered you a place to stay. You know that, right?”

“I know. I just… I feel guilty. About Caleb. Like, I _keep_ hurting you, over and over, and it’s the last thing I wanna do. But I feel like hiding it from you might be worse? I don’t _wanna_ hide shit from you, that’s not who I am anymore.”

Mickey turns to him, nudging him in the leg until they’re looking at each other. “How I feel. About you. That’s _mine_ , that is on _me_. And you have _gotta_ stop worryin’ about it because you can’t control how I feel. If this is what you want, you’ve gotta be honest with me about it, man.”

“I know. I _do_. I just… I dunno. Thought this would be easier, maybe? Which was fucking stupid.”

“Yeah, well. You always have been a goddamn idiot.”

*

By the time Lip shows up, Mickey is halfway through his third cigarette in ten minutes. Lip weaves between the busted old fridge and the bathtub with a hole in the bottom and raises a hand in greeting when he spots Mickey leaning against the wall.

“Hey.” He calls out as he approaches. He’s got a six pack tucked under his arm, and his hands are shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

“Took your sweet time. I’m freezing my ass off.”

Lip laughs, although it comes out bitter and hard around the edges. “I’d invite you to my place, but. Well. I don’t really _have_ one of those anymore.”

Mickey flicks his cigarette into a patch of tall grass and stands up straight. “You got a place to stay?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. Gonna crash at home tonight. I’ll figure the rest out tomorrow.”

Mickey leads him into the abandoned building, feet crunching against years on years of debris and trash. He hasn’t been up here in years, but nothing’s really changed. Not that there had been much _to_ change. He slings the busted old backpack he’d dug outta Iggy’s closet on the ground and crouches over it.

“So, what’re we doing up here?”

Mickey ignores him for a moment, lips twitching when he hears Lip tut in annoyance. His fingers curl around the grip of the handgun, the weight heavy and familiar in his hand.

“You learn how to shoot while I was gone?” He asks, glancing over his shoulder.

Lip’s mouth pulls upwards. “Too much of a college boy for that, remember?”

“S’why I’m asking.” He doublechecks that it’s loaded before he stands up, pulling a face when his knee cracks. “You wanna?”

Lip shrugs but doesn’t move to take it. He unhooks a beer can instead, and rests the others between his feet before he opens it. “So, why’re we here?”

Mickey considers just brushing it off. Let’s the joke sit on the tip of his tongue. Almost says ‘ _Was planning on using you for target practice’._ But, in a show of what he personally thinks is incredible personal growth, he does none of those things. For once, he tells the truth.

“Ian’s gone out with that firefighter again.”

Lip makes an understanding noise. “To that wedding, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

Mickey aims at the back wall, takes a second to readjust his grip, and then fires. Mortar and bits of broken brick splinter off the wall and flutter to the pile already on the ground.

Lip, to his credit, doesn’t so much as flinch. He takes a sip of his beer. “That good, huh?”

Mickey snorts.

“Are you even allowed to _have_ that, Mr Upstanding Citizen?”

The eyebrow Mickey raises at him makes him smile. “Why? You gonna rat me out?”

“As if,” Lip waves him off, “Gallaghers don’t snitch.”

“Oh, as long as _that’s_ what’s stopping you.” He rolls his eyes at Lip’s smirk. “How’s your geriatric boyfriend?”

Lip groans. “She doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

“Can’t say I blame her. Fuck knows I wouldn’t want you in _my_ bed.”

Lip’s groan turns in a choked laugh. “Yeah, well, you haven’t seen me in action.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.” His grin fades, and he rubs a hand under his nose. “Hey, uh. If you can’t find a place to stay…”

Lip squints over at him, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You asking me to move in with you, Mick?”

“Fuck you, man. I’m just sayin’. If you need somewhere to go, there’s space free at my place. I wouldn’t totally hate it.”

“Thanks. But, uh. I’ll figure it out. The idea of watching you and Ian dance around each other’s not exactly my idea of a good time, yeah?” He swallows the last of his beer and throws the can towards the back wall. It bounces off with a clang and he pulls a face. “The first time was bad enough.”

“The fuck are you talking about? We never–.”

Lip scoffs, bending down so he can grab another can. He nurses it between his palms instead of immediately opening it.

“You think I didn’t see you two pining after each other for _months_?”

“When the _fuck_?” Mickey cuts himself off, his mind racing.

 _When_ had he and Ian even officially said they were dating? Obviously, there was that whole thing with his dad at _The Alibi_ , but outside of that? _No one_ had known before that? Right? He had been so _fucking_ careful. He’d made sure _no one_ knew. Though, thinking back on it, there _had_ been that time Lip came looking for him, just after Ian went missing. His throat goes dry.

“How long have you known?” He asks, swallowing around the sudden cotton mouth. “About us?”

Lip’s giving him that amused look again, like he finds it really fucking funny that Mickey’s only just caught up on a joke he finished telling ten minutes ago.

“The beginning, pretty much.”

Mickey feels like the floor is about to give out under him. Like, at any moment it’s gonna tilt on its axis and send him flying. “Ian told you?”

He can’t even blame Ian for it. Not really. Fuck knows, if Sandy had been around when all of this was starting, he would’ve told her. Gay solidarity, or whatever the fuck.

Lip shrugs, completely unapologetic. “Not like we sat around braiding each other’s hair or anything, you know? But, yeah. I knew.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

Lip rolls the beer can between his hands. “In our fucked-up neighbourhood? No way. Wasn’t my secret to tell.”

The reality of it hits him like a goddamn freight train. Lip kept his secret. Lip had _known_ about him. For _years_. And never said anything about it. Even when he could have. Hell, there were probably times that he _should_ have said something. But he hadn’t. Because Ian asked him not to.

“I…” He shakes his head, trying desperately to clear it, to be able to form actual fucking sentences. Hell, even just a _word_ would be nice at this point. “I…”

Lip smiles like he understands what Mickey can’t say. He’s a smart asshole, so he probably does. “It’s okay, Mickey.”

It’s not. It’s not okay. It… Lip will _never_ truly know what he’s done. How important it is. What it _means_.

Mickey swallows. “Nah, man. _Thanks_.”

Mickey doesn’t know _when_ exactly the Gallaghers started being able to read him like an open fucking book, and he isn’t sure he likes it. But, this one time, as Lip easily changes the subject, he’s kinda insanely thankful for it.

“Ian tell you he’s thinking about being an EMT?”

Mickey nods, takes a deep breath and starts lining up another shot. “Yeah, asked me to help him study for the exam. As if I’m gonna know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

“It’s good, though, right? I’m glad he’s found something he _wants_ to do.”

“Yeah. Hell, he’s been walking around the past coupla days with fucking _flashcards_. I haven’t seen him this excited about something since…” He fires, letting himself move with the recoil. More brick splinters off the wall.

“The army?” When he glances over at Lip, it’s to find him looking sad. “I mean, he had his moments when he was manic, right? But, those, uh. Those don’t really count.”

Mickey shrugs, because he hates thinking about it. Hates thinking about all the ways he could’ve done things _better_. How he should’ve gotten Ian help earlier, how he should’ve listened when they told him how bad it could get, how he would’ve fought for Ian, if given the chance. Before Sammi. Before prison.

“It’s not your fault, you know?” Lip asks, cutting through his thoughts and drawing his attention back to the real world. “I know, at the time, I was a dick about it. But it wasn’t your fault.”

“Not like it was yours either.”

Lip scoffs and takes a long drink. “Maybe not. But, well. We could’ve reacted better. When he was diagnosed, I mean. _Should’ve_ reacted better. Instead of just… writing him off as another Monica. He deserved better than that.”

“Yeah, he did. It fucked with him a lot, at first. That’s part of the reason he broke up with me, I think.”

“Shit.”

Mickey snorts. “Yeah. Shit. He doesn’t want me to watch him turn into her.”

Lip closes his eyes and breathes in deep. “He’s _not_. He’s so much better than she has _ever_ been.”

Mickey doesn’t need to have met Monica to know that’s the truth, but he still nods. He suddenly feels exhausted. “Can we talk about something else now? _Anything_ else?”

Lip huffs out a quiet laugh. “You wanna come over for dinner tonight? He’ll never admit, but I know Carl misses having you around.”

Lip ditches him before they have a chance to go to the Gallagher house after all – something about a sorority house and a job as house boy, or something. Mickey doesn’t pay much attention after the “sorry, man, gotta go.” He still ends up walking that way home, though, just for a change in shitty scenery.

He doesn’t recognise Carl, at first. Although that might be because of the stupid beanie he’s wearing. He’s a lot taller now, too. Shooting up like a fucking weed, although he’s still pretty goddamn short. Not that Mickey can really judge. The guy leaning against the fence is new, although he wouldn’t be surprised if this was that Sean guy Lip and Ian had mentioned. Fiona isn’t one to stay out of a relationship for long, after all, and he’d heard all about what happened with her husband.

“Yo.” Mickey calls as he approaches, raising a hand in greeting when Carl glances up.

Carl breaks into a smile, although it’s uncharacteristically small. “Mickey! Hey!”

“Fuck’s up with you?” Mickey asks, completely ignoring the way the other guy is staring at him. He stops just in front of Carl, on the opposite side of the chain link fence, and reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder. “You alright?”

“Who the hell are you?” The older guy says, and yeah. Okay. This _has_ to be Sean – the man is super fucking old and has a serious attitude problem.

He’s also a hell of a lot taller than Mickey is, and he has to squint up at him. “None of your goddamn business, that’s who.”

Carl’s mouth ticks up again, and he looks over his shoulder. “It’s okay. He’s a… friend.”

“I’ll bet.” Sean says, and Mickey does _not_ like the tone of his voice. He raises his eyebrows and wipes at the corner of his mouth, gearing up for an argument. Apparently, this guy _does_ have something between his ears, though, because he steps away, towards the house. “Think about what I said.”

Mickey waits until he’s gone, and the back door has clicked shut again, before he turns to Carl and frowns at him. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong, now?”

Carl shakes his head. “It’s a long story.”

“You think I don’t know about you doin’ time?”

The shoulder under Mickey’s hand tenses, and when they make contact, Carl’s eyes are wide.

“You know?”

“‘Course I fuckin’ do.” He studies Carl for a couple of seconds and then slides his hand up to cup the teenager’s cheek gently. Forces him to look at him. “What happened?”

“Friend of mine dropped a guy.”

Mickey’s stomach drops. “You see it happen?”

His breath punches out of his chest when Carl shakes his head. Thank _fuck_. “Nah. Just… after.”

He takes in the way Carl’s skin has paled, the sweat clinging to his forehead, the way he’s shaking under Mickey’s palm. “Fuck it.” He mumbles, letting go long enough to jump the fence.

When he’s on the other side, he gently tugs Carl into a hug. He’s not exactly sure when he became someone that willingly gives out hugs to other people. _Especially_ when those other people were actual nightmares as kids. Still, he smiles a bit when he feels Carl’s arms wrap around him in return. For such a fucking twig, he’s got a surprisingly strong grip.

“You wanna get out?” He murmurs into Carl’s hairline, keeping a careful eye on the kitchen window. The light’s still on inside and he knows first-hand how fucking nosy Fiona can be.

“Dunno how.” Carl whispers back.

His hat tickles Mickey’s cheek, so he pulls back enough to tug it off. He whistles at the cornrows, runs his hand over them, tugs on their ends and grins at the way Carl tries to duck outta the way. “The fuck you get yourself into, kid?”

“Thought it would be cool.”

The quiet laugh Mickey lets out is anything but happy. “This shit has _never_ been cool. You either wind up in the joint for the rest of your life, or you wind up dead. You really want either of those?”

Carl shakes his head. “No. But, I don’t…”

“We’ll get you out.”

“How?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Mickey says, all fake confidence and cocky smirk.

Truth is, he has no idea.

Ian’s drunk. That’s the first thing Mickey figures out when he eventually gets home. He feels like he’s about to fall asleep on his fucking feet, and Ian is drunk. Or, at least he was. In the process of sobering up, maybe? Hard to tell with him sprawled across the couch as he is, with one leg hooked over the back cushions and the other foot planted on the floor.

Fuck, but Mickey wants to crawl into the space between his knees and just… collapse on him. Maybe suck his dick. But mostly, just collapse on him. He is _tired_.

“You have fun?” Mickey asks, bypassing the couch so he can stumble into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water. While he’s in there, he gets one for Ian, too. He’s nice like that.

“Yeah, I guess.” Ian says. At Mickey’s approach, he swings his legs back around so both feet are on the floor. He accepts the glass of water and downs half of it in one go. “Thanks.”

“You guess?” Mickey drops down next to him. And when, exactly, had his life become so fucking repetitive that they always seem to end up here? It’s starting to feel like his life revolves around this fucking couch and the conversations he has on it.

“Yeah,” Ian shrugs and puts his glass on the floor by his foot, “it kinda sucked for a while, honestly. Caleb’s family are all _super_ religious.”

Mickey grimaces. Ian notices, and nods.

“Right? So, that wasn’t great. And then once _that_ was over with, we went to the reception, right? And we’re having fun, or whatever, until he accidentally lets slip the only reason he invited me was so he could piss off his family.”

Mickey goes cold. He raises an eyebrow and _forces_ himself to be calm when he says, “He did _what_?”

Ian rolls his head against the back of the couch to look at him. “It’s the religion, right? Said they’re all God-fearing homophobic assholes and he just wanted to fuck with them.”

“ _That’s_ why he invited you?” Mickey is trying really fucking hard not to lose it. Because if he does, he’ll say something he won’t regret, but that could backfire _real_ bad. “Because you’re gay?”

Ian hums in agreement. “It was kinda fun, though. Gotta dance, at least.”

“He let you get drunk, too?” Mickey asks because he just can’t help himself. He doesn’t _want_ to nag. Not about this, not when Ian _has_ been doing so well. But, well. Old habits die hard, or some shit. “On your meds?”

“Caleb… he doesn’t know.” Ian mutters, glancing away finally. He bends down to pick his glass back up and rolls it between his palms. “About the bipolar, I mean.”

“He doesn’t? Why-?”

Ian shrugs. “Don’t want him to. It always changes things. When people know.”

 _Not for me_. _Not when it’s you_. It’s on the tip of his tongue. Hell, he even opens his mouth to _say_ it. But before he has a chance, Ian drains the rest of his glass and gets to his feet.

“I’m going to bed. Night, Mick.”

Mickey watches him wander towards the door to Mandy’s room. Argues with himself. Pushes himself to his own feet and stalks after Ian.

“Ian.” He waits until Ian is looking at him before he reaches up and cups his face between his palms. “It didn’t change anything. Not for me. I’ve never loved you any less because of it.”

Ian’s smile is pure heartbreak. Cracked and frayed and _broken_. He wraps his stupidly big hands around Mickey’s wrists and just lets them rest there for a moment. His movements are slow as he leans forwards, dips his head, and presses his lips to the crown of Mickey’s head. Mickey’s eyes drift shut as he feels Ian breathe him in.

“Goodnight, Mickey.”

Mickey lets him go.

*

The next couple of days are… weird. Like, Ian still acts the same around his as he did before they shattered each other’s hearts, but. It’s _different_ , somehow, and Mickey can’t figure out if there’s actually something up, or if he’s just imagining it.

He distracts himself by helping Ian study. Which _should_ be hilarious in itself, because Mickey is absolutely the _least_ qualified person for this. But, well. He’s never really been able to say no when Ian asks for something. And if it means Mickey gets to watch him come _alive_ again every time he gets a question right, then this is something he doesn’t _really_ mind doing. Doesn’t mean he’s not gonna put on a show of complaining about it, though. He’s got appearances to maintain, and shit.

Mickey has always known that Ian is smart; remembers the amount of time and energy that Ian put into studying to get into Westpoint. It’s one thing to know it in the abstract, to _hear_ about the hours of studying Ian can and _will_ put into something if he wants it bad enough. It’s a whole other ball game to be an active participant in it. To _see_ Ian regain his confidence, to see Ian start believing in himself again. He goes to his EMT classes and comes home fucking _glowing_.

It kinda takes Mickey’s breath away, sometimes.

He just… wishes Caleb weren’t a part of it. Sure, Ian’s done a pretty good job of only bringing him up when he has to. And Mickey appreciates it. He _does_. But he still knows. Whether or not Ian talks about him, Mickey still _knows_. That Ian finding something he loves, something he’s clearly gonna be fucking _great_ at, is because of Caleb.

And not him.

Ian’s done such a good job at keeping them separate, that it kinda comes as a shock when he asks Mickey to hang out with them.

“So, I hung out with some of Caleb’s friends today.”

They’re in the same diner Mickey had taken him to weeks ago. Ian’s on his second milkshake, and Mickey’s picking at leftover lettuce leaves as he debates on whether he wants ice cream.

“Oh, yeah? How’d that go?” He asks, popping a wilted piece of lettuce into his mouth.

“They think Channing Tatum’s hot.”

Mickey pulls a face, and Ian grins. Sure, he’d seen _Magic Mike_ just like everyone else. And _maybe_ he’d spent more time thinking about it than he would ever admit out loud. He’d been a really horny teenager in 2012, so sue him.

“Yeah. Exactly. We went for coffee after the movie was over,” he rolls his eyes at Mickey’s snort, “shut up. Anyway, we go for coffee, right, and they spend the _whole_ time quizzing me. Trying to make me feel uncomfortable, or whatever the fuck.”

“What? Why?”

“I dunno. One of them is Caleb’s ex or some shit.”

“And he just… let it happen?” Mickey’s palms are sweating. “He didn’t say anything to stop ‘em?”

Ian shakes his head. “Not really. Told me they could be ‘a handful’ and kinda just let me deal with it.”

“What the _fuck_ , Ian?”

He shrugs. “It wasn’t so bad. They were assholes, but, _Lip’s_ my brother, so I think I handled it pretty well.”

“Not the fuckin’ _point_.” He steals Ian’s milkshake and takes a sip to wash down the lettuce. “No offence, man, but this Caleb guy sounds like a _dick_.”

Ian’s face goes sad and he sighs. “Yeah, maybe.”

Mickey nudges his foot under the table. “Wanna get your own back?”

Ian’s smile is _beautiful_.

Caleb is… not what Mickey was expecting. He’s taller than Ian, for one thing. Which is just fucking _weird_. Well dressed, too, and not in a ‘I got this shit on sale’ kinda way.

Mickey is on edge from the _second_ Ian leads him into _The Alibi_. It’s not that he’s intimidated by this guy, really; Mickey has never scared easy. But he sees it, how much _better_ this guy is for Ian. How he could make Ian happy in ways Mickey will never be able to.

“Mickey!” Ian calls out, smiling wide. He raises a hand in greeting and weaves between the tables over to Mickey’s corner booth.

“Hey, Ian!” Kev’s pouring a pint of something for one of the old regulars at the bar, but he nods in greeting. He does a double take at the sight of Caleb. “Ian’s friend.”

“Hey,” Mickey says when they’re close enough that he doesn’t have to shout.

Ian shrugs his jacket off and immediately slips into the booth opposite Mickey. His smile softens. “Hey, Mick.” He glances up at Caleb, who’s standing a little awkwardly at the edge of the table. “This is Caleb. Caleb, Mickey.”

“S’up, man?” Mickey asks, because he _has_ manners, even if he chooses not to use them that often.

Caleb carefully lowers himself onto the bench next to Ian but doesn’t take his coat off. “Good to meet you.”

Mickey’s been here long enough to already be halfway through a beer, and Ian steals the bottle out from under his nose.

“Get your fuckin’ own, asshole.” Mickey grumbles, but there’s no bite to it.

“Kev’s busy.” Ian snarks back when he puts the bottle down. He bumps his knee against Mickey’s under the table and grins at the slow way Mickey smiles. “How was your day?”

Mickey raises his eyebrows at him, but shrugs. “Same old, I guess. Eddie’s a bitch, but she got me my own order today.”

“No way! Mick, that’s amazing.”

Mickey flushes and ducks his head, chewing his bottom lip to stop himself from smiling even more than he already is.

“What do you do?” Caleb asks, and Mickey jolts, because for the briefest moment he’d forgotten he was even _here_.

“I’m, uh. A mechanic? I guess?” He takes his beer back from Ian and flips him off when he complains.

Mickey’s spent his whole life watching people fake their niceness, and the smile Caleb gives him is nothing but complete _bullshit_. Two can play at that game. He sniffs.

“Didn’t have much choice, y’know? Part of my parole.” He sees Ian fighting a smile out of the corner of his eye. “Gotta wait a while before I can go back to running drugs, though. Kinda getting used to being out of prison.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “You’re not _on_ probation.”

He sees Caleb relax slightly and smirks. “Technicality. Seaver’s still my P.O.”

Caleb clearly has no idea what to say, is so _obviously_ out of his depth here that Mickey feels a little bad about it. But then he remembers the shit Ian’s told him, and that guilt dries up _real_ fast.

“You boys know what you want?” Kev calls over to them.

Mickey waves his beer bottle and Kev nods.

“Hope you didn’t want anything fancy.” Mickey says, turning his attention back to Caleb. “This place is kind of a shithole.”

“No, it’s okay.”

Mickey doesn’t like the look Caleb is giving him, but he’s above starting fights with random assholes now. Mostly.

“So, you two getting serious?”

He fights a smile when Ian doesn’t immediately answer. Caleb glances across at him with a frown and clears his throat.

“We’re having fun.”

“Having fun, huh?” He nods slowly and points at Caleb. “You met his family yet? They’re the _real_ fun.”

Ian’s sigh sounds a lot like a laugh and Mickey grins.

“No, Ian’s not all that forthcoming about his family.”

“You mean he don’t know about Sammi?” Mickey asks, his grin turning _nasty_ , “Oh, man. Wait ‘til you hear about Sammi. She’s the reason I was locked up to begin with–.”

Ian cuts him off by kicking him in the shin, and he licks the corner of his mouth.

“Sammi’s my sister.” Ian explains, and then frowns. “Half-sister, technically, I guess. She’s… a handful.”

Mickey snorts. “That’s putting it fuckin’ _mildly_. She ratted you out to the MPs _and_ got me locked up.”

Caleb looks concerned, like he can’t quite figure out if they’re joking or not. Ian doesn’t give him a chance to ask anything, though, because he leans across the table.

“Speaking of Sammi. Did I tell you her mom showed up a couple days ago?”

“No shit? She just as batshit?”

Ian nods. “Oh, _yeah_. Different kinda crazy, though. Total hippie. Carl says she and Frank sing to each other over breakfast every morning.”

Mickey laughs. “Holy _shit_.”

“I know. Part of me kinda wants to see it myself, y’know?”

Caleb coughs and taps Ian on the shoulder, phone in hand. “Hey, I’ve gotta go.”

Ian frowns. “Already? I thought you were free today.”

“Hank’s kid’s still pretty ill. Needs me to cover again.”

Mickey has spent his entire life around liars. And Caleb? Is lying through his fucking _teeth_.

“Okay, I guess. I’ll see you tomorrow?” Ian asks, barely glancing away from Mickey to look at Caleb.

“Yeah, whatever.” Caleb says.

Mickey gives him a wave as he backs away from the table. “Nice meeting you, man.” He watches Caleb disappear out the door and waits for it to swing shut before turning back to Ian. “I’d say that went well, wouldn’t you?”

Ian’s still laughing when Kev comes over with their beers.

*

It’s his day off, and instead of relaxing at home in front of the TV in his underwear, he’s about to help Carl get out of a goddamn gang. He calls Larry on his way over to the Gallagher house.

“Hello? Mickey?”

“You said to call you if I had any problems, right?”

Larry is quiet on the other end of the phone for a minute. “Whatever you’re about to tell me… make sure you’re certain it’s what you want to do.”

“Look, my kid brother is in some shit that he shouldn’t be. So, I’m tryna get him out of it.”

“I didn’t realise you _have_ a younger brother. Our records list Mandy as the last–.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, dodging a loose chunk of sidewalk that’s starting to crumble into the road. “He’s not blood related. But, he’s in over his head, and I’m gonna get him out.”

“Mickey… if you’re–.”

“Relax, Newton, I’m not doing anything illegal. I’m just letting you know that it’s happening.”

“Well in _that_ case.” Larry bites out. “Carry on.”

Mickey snorts softly. “If I don’t help him, he’s gonna end up dead or in prison for the rest of his life. I ain’t gonna let that happen.”

Larry sighs. “I suppose, if you’re not doing anything _illegal_ , I don’t exactly have the grounds to stop you. Just… please promise me that you’ll be careful.”

He spots Carl, already waiting on the sidewalk, and huffs. “Gotta go.”

Whatever Larry starts to say is cut off as he hangs up, and he nods at Carl.

“You ready?” He calls out. As he gets closer, though, he notices the _huge_ fucking bruise on Carl’s forehead. When he’s close enough, he reaches out and runs his fingers over it, wincing when Carl jerks away. “Didn’t take too kindly to you wanting out, huh?”

Carl shakes his head.

“Okay, well. You got anything on that you don’t wanna lose?”

Carl frowns at him and he sighs.

“Look, we’re gonna ask ‘em to let you go. Real nice. Real polite. And when that doesn’t work, they’re gonna take everything we’ve got on us. So, you got anythin’ on you that you wanna hang on to?”

“Not really.”

“Let’s go get this over with, I guess.”

So maybe, when Mickey told Larry he wasn’t doing anything illegal, he was kinda… sorta… lying. Just a little. On the list of illegal shit Mickey Milkovich has done, car theft isn’t exactly high up there. They catch the L to a nicer part of town – like that’s _difficult_ – and spend ten minutes scouting out a Costco parking lot before Mickey finds a car someone was stupid enough to leave the windows down on.

Mickey’s not above breaking into one, not for this. Not for Carl. But thankfully the black Audi they find will do the job.

“Aren’t you on parole?” Carl asks as Mickey bends over the wheel.

“Aren’t you?” Mickey counters when the engine sputters to life. He turns to Carl with a raised eyebrow and a grin.

The drive to the meeting place is quiet. Not that Mickey really minds. Spending time with Carl has always been easy, even when neither of them have anything to say. He kinda reminds Mickey of Ian, in that sense. The ability to just _exist_ together. A lot of people feel the need to fill the silence, to turn it into something it’s not. But not Carl.

Plus, judging by the look on Carl’s face, he’s about ready to shit himself. Mickey can’t say he blames him.

He pales even further when they pull into the almost empty parking lot. A black car sits at the opposite end, the doors opening when Mickey pulls to a stop.

“Well. It’s too fuckin’ late back out now.”

“I know.” Carl looks over at him and tries to smile. It really hits Mickey then, as they’re sitting there, just how fucking _young_ Carl is. He’s still just a _kid_. With his whole life ahead of him. “Thanks. For coming with me.”

“Not like I got anywhere else to be. ‘Sides, who were you plannin’ on bringing otherwise? That old fuck I saw you talking to the other day?”

Carl snorts. “Sean? No way. He doesn’t know how this kinda shit works.”

“No shit.”

“Offered me a job, though. At the diner.”

That genuinely surprises Mickey and he cocks an eyebrow. “Yeah? You gonna take it?”

“If I don’t die here, then, yeah. I think so.”

“That’s good.” Mickey knows they’re just stalling now, so he takes a deep breath. “You ready?”

Carl nods. “As I’ll ever be, I guess.”

Mickey is so cold he can’t feel his toes. That’s not some kind weird metaphor or anything, either. He _literally_ cannot feel his toes. He ushers Carl through the front door first, making sure to lock it behind them.

Ian’s just coming out of the bathroom, and he pauses at the sight of them, his eyes widening.

“The fuck? Guys?”

“Hey.” Mickey says, teeth chattering a little. He pushes Carl towards the living room. “Sit down for a minute.”

Carl does as he’s told, visibly shivering the whole time. Ian watches him with obvious concern, turning back to Mickey when he gets close.

“What the _fuck_ , Mick?” He follows Mickey into his bedroom and watches him rip the blankets off his bed.

“I dunno if you noticed,” Mickey says, bundling the blankets in his arms and trying not to drop them from how much he’s shaking, “but Carl’s kinda turnin’ blue out there. Can this wait until he stops looking like Violet fuckin’ Beauregard?”

Ian snaps up straight, his eyes immediately scanning Mickey. Usually, the way Ian’s looking at him would make him hot under the collar. But, well. He _can’t feel his toes_. Ian nods, ushering him towards the door.

“Keep him covered. You too.”

Mickey shuffles over to where Carl is shivering on the couch and drops down next to him. He untangles the blankets as fast as he can and thrusts one end of it towards Carl.

“Gotta warm up.”

Carl nods and takes the corner offered to him. A few seconds later, Ian comes back out of Mandy’s room with an armful of his own blankets. He crouches in front of his brother as he double checks that he’s fully covered, the concern written clear as fucking day across his face. He reaches out to run his fingers over the bruise across his forehead.

“You out? For good?”

“Yeah.” Carl manages.

“Okay.” Ian strokes his cheek, smiling a little when Carl leans into it. Then he nods and gets back to his feet. “I’m gonna make you a hot drink. That’ll help warm you up again.”

Mickey zones out for a while. He doesn’t do it deliberately, just one second he’s staring at a crack in the wall behind the TV that he doesn’t remember getting there, and the next thing he knows Ian’s pressing a hot mug of something into his hands. Carl’s fast asleep and curled up on the end of the couch, his feet – now wearing socks – brushing against Mickey’s thigh.

“Coffee.” Ian says, smiling slightly at the way Mickey blinks at him. “Drink it.”

“Thanks.” Mickey runs a hand through his hair. He’s significantly warmer now, and it’s making him kinda sleepy.

“I should be the one thanking you. For helping him.” He nods at Carl.

Mickey shakes his head. “It was nothin’, man.”

“Mick… he told me what you did for him. Risking your parole?”

“‘M not _on_ parole.” Mickey grumbles.

He practically hears Ian rolls his eyes. “ _Whatever_. You just… You didn’t have to, is what I’m saying.”

Mickey glances up and meets Ian’s eye. “Of course, I fuckin’ did, Ian.”

*

“Debbie moved out this morning.” Ian says, as he fishes a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket.

He knocks one loose, sticks it in his mouth, and shoves the packet back into the pocket he got it out of. Pausing long enough to light it, he squints over at Mickey. They’re waiting for Lip to get out of… whatever the fuck it is he’s doing right now, so they can go to a goddamn sorority party of all the fucking things. Because _apparently_ that’s Mickey’s life now. College parties. With drunk, horny chicks looking to get laid. Excited isn’t exactly the word Mickey would use to describe how he feels, but, if he’s being honest, there is a part of him that’s… curious.

“Oh, yeah?” He asks, stealing the cigarette straight outta Ian’s mouth. He grins at the noise of protest Ian makes and inhales deeply. “Thought Frank set her up with that dyin’ lady?”

“He did.” Ian laughs, a little disbelieving. Like even after all these years, Frank’s bullshit still manages to amaze him. “Now, he’s got her goin’ to some… hippie commune, or some shit, with Sammi’s mom. Got her thinking she’s gonna have the baby out in the woods. The only plus is that Chuckie’s going with ‘em.”

“That safe?”

Ian shakes his head and holds out a hand for Mickey to pass the cigarette back over. “I got no idea.”

The door behind them opens and a tired looking Lip stumbles out. He nods when he sees them.

“Losers.”

“Where were you?” Ian asks, as they all fall into step together. “I’m starving.”

Lip frowns at him. “What time is it?” Ian shows him the time on his phone and Lip sighs. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry, man.”

“The fuck were you doing? Sucking another old man’s dick?”

Lip’s frown turns into a smile. “Hello to you, too, Mick.”

“College.” Mickey returns, bumping into Ian’s arm and glaring up at him. Ian shrugs, completely unapologetic, so he focusses his attention on Lip again. “So, what’s happening tonight, exactly?”

“Well,” Lip says, pulling his bag strap further up his shoulder, “I’m running the bar for the party. There’s gonna be costumes and shit.”

He dodges around the back of them both, pulling an already open can out of his pocket. He drains what was left before throwing the can in a trashcan. “We’ll make it fun.”

“Hair of the dog?” Ian asks, with a concerned frown.

“You read sixty-three shitty student papers on nuclear fission, you need something to dull the pain.”

Mick snorts. “I don’t know what any of that means.”

Lip grins at him, wiping his hands off on his jacket before shoving them in his pockets. “Well, Mick, sixty-three is the number that comes after sixty-two. I thought you were good at math.”

“Man, shut the _fuck_ up.”

Mickey spends most of the party hanging out with Lip. Ian disappears to go and dance after he’s got a few drinks in him, which Mickey _refuses_ to join in with no matter how many times Ian begs him. Not in a million goddamn years.

Lip, it turns out, is actually a pretty decent bartender. Which, seeing as how his biggest example is _Kev_ , is saying a fucking lot. Knowing Lip, though, and his annoying as fuck need to always be right, he probably googled how to make some of this shit a few hours ago. And then, just… remembered. Because he’s an asshole like that.

There’s a decent crowd surrounding the ‘bar’ (which is just a table with a cheap plastic tablecloth thrown over the top, fuck you very much Lip). Lip keeps a constant stream of alcohol and conversation flowing, and the ease that he fits in here is kinda unnerving. Mickey’s always known that he can charm his way out of an argument almost as quickly as he can talk himself _into_ one, but watching him flirt and charm girl after girl is weird.

Ian pushes his way back through the crowd and smiles at Mickey “Having fun?”

Somewhere along the way he’s managed to pick up a couple multicoloured bead necklaces. When he notices Mickey’s raised eyebrow, he unhooks one from around his neck and drapes it over Mickey’s head. His smile grows into a full-on grin when Mickey slaps his hand away.

“One way of putting it.” Mickey says, mouth pulling up into a smile despite himself. “Not sure I’d wanna do this all the time, though.”

Lip turns back to them from whatever he’d been doing, a shot of something bright orange in each hand. “One for each of you,” he hands them over and then picks up one for himself, “and one for me.”

Ian looks at Lip then, and he raises an eyebrow. “Hell did you put on your face?”

“It’s fuckin’ dumb, right?” Mickey downs his shot and winces. “I told him he looks fuckin’ stupid, but he don’t wanna listen.”

Lip flips him off. “The girls did it. They _said_ it was water soluble, but I tried to wash it off my hands. It won’t come off.”

“Don’t even touch me with that shit.” Ian barely manages to avoid the hand Lip swings at him, and Mickey snorts when he bumps into the chick behind him. He hurries to apologise and then frowns, handing dipping into his back pocket so he can pull out his phone.

“You okay?” Mickey asks.

Ian nods distractedly, holding the phone up to his ear and disappearing into the crowd for a minute. Lip hands him another shot with a shrug.

When Ian comes back, he’s pale and his eyes can’t settle on anything for longer than a second or two. He grabs Mickey by the elbow and pulls him away from the bar.

“Ian, what the _fuck_?”

“It was Mandy.” Ian says, fingers still wrapped around Mickey’s wrist. “On the phone.”

Mickey’s stomach drops. “She okay?”

“I dunno. She said she couldn’t say anything on the phone.”

“She say where she is?” Mickey feels Ian’s fingers tighten around his wrist, and he twists his hand so he can smooth his thumb over Ian’s knuckles. “ _Ian_?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know where she is.”

“Okay.” He gives Ian a once over. Raises his free hand to the back of Ian’s neck. Squeezes. “Then let’s go.”

By the time they reach the hotel Mandy’s staying in, Ian is a lot calmer. Mickey, on the other hand, is starting to freak the _fuck_ out. They hadn’t exactly left things on the best of terms, he and Mandy. Hadn’t really been good to each other in a _long_ time.

“Does she know I’m coming?” He asks as he follows Ian down the hallway leading to Mandy’s room.

“No.”

“You didn’t tell her I was there?”

“Didn’t get a chance.”

They come to a stop in front of one of the doors. Ian turns to him and rolls his shoulders. He knocks on the door.

“Mandy?”

“Who is it?”

Mickey stills at the sound of her voice. The last time they’d seen each other had been… tense. An argument, about her going with Kenyatta. He knows he was right, but she’d left anyway and hadn’t spoken to him since. Guess that’s about to change. He takes a deep breath.

“It’s me.”

She must be standing on the other side of the door with how quickly she opens it. “Come in, quick.”

Ian moves past her, and she freezes when she sees Mickey. He takes advantage of her hesitation to push into the room. He hears the door slam shut behind them.

“ _Mickey_ ,” she hisses, and he turns to see her stalking towards them. She looks pretty much the same; blonde hair, rail fucking thin, pissed off. The dress she’s wearing looks expensive, though. And it also has… blood on it? “What are _you_ doing here? Why did you bring _him_?”

“Sorry for being fuckin’ worried about you, bitch.” Mickey mutters.

“Are you alright?” Ian cuts in, drawing Mandy’s attention away from him.

She sighs. “I did some crank, don’t ask me why, ‘cause I fucking hate that shit.”

“That’s why you called? Fuckin’ crank?” Mickey scoffs and she glares at him.

“Fuck no, asshole.” She points at what is presumably the bathroom door. “That… that’s why.”

Ian moves like he’s gearing up for a fight and pushes past them both so he can open the door. Mickey’s hot on his heels, and they both wince when the door swings open to reveal a fucking _body_ on the floor.

Mickey turns to Mandy. “What the _fuck_?”

She crosses her arms over her chest but doesn’t answer him. Ian darts forward to check the guy’s pulse.

“Don’t worry about him. He’s dead.”

Ian leans back on his heels and doesn’t turn around. “What happened to him?”

“Mandy… what the fuck happened?”

She doesn’t seem to hear them, instead focusses on the blood stain on the front of her dress and groans. “I’ve worn this, like, twice.”

Mickey starts following her as Ian rushes out of the bathroom.

“Mandy!”

Her shoulders slump. “I met him through my service.”

“ _What_ service?” Mickey demands. “The fuck have you gotten yourself into?”

“Fuck _off_ , asshole.” She snaps at him, turning around. “Escort.”

“ _Jesus_ , Mandy.”

“You don’t get to judge me.” She says. “Not for this.”

“I do when you end up in a hotel room with a _dead guy_.”

“Rich coming from the asshole who went to prison for _attempted murder_.”

Mickey flips her off. “I’m _not guilty_.”

“Guys.” Ian interrupts. He places a gentle hand on Mickey’s shoulder, digging his thumb into the edge of his collar bone. “What’re we gonna do?”

“Get rid of it, obviously.” Mandy says. “Why d’you think I called you?”

“Couldn’t just wanna catch up, huh?” Ian asks. Mandy at least has the decency to look a little ashamed. “Going down the hall won’t work, will it?”

Mickey shakes his head. “Nah, security cameras.”

“We could cover our faces?”

“They’ll know we came out of this room.”

Mandy glances around the room and gives the window a double take. Ian gives Mickey an exasperated look.

“We are _not_ pushing him outta the window.”

“Why not? It’s only the second floor.” Mandy moves over to the window and pushes the blind aside. “It’s not even concrete down there, it’s just a strip of grass.”

She hurries back over to the bathroom. Mickey and Ian follow her, watching as she starts fussing with the shower curtain.

“Are you outta your fuckin’ _mind_?” Mickey asks, waving off the way Mandy glares at him with one hand. “No way that’ll work. For one thing, it’s _snowing_ , someone will notice. For another, the windows ain’t gonna open far enough for you to do it anyway.”

“He’s right.” Ian says, and Mickey ignores the warmth in his chest at that, because there are _more important things_ to be worrying about. “Mandy… we can’t push him out the window.”

“Then what do we _do_?” Mandy demands, tugging uselessly at the shower curtain.

“Call 911.” Ian puts his hands over Mandy’s to still her. “Listen to me. You don’t tell them you’re an escort. You say you… met him in a bar, that you brought him back to your room, that… that you had rough sex.”

Mandy glances over at Mickey, and for a second, she’s just the scared little girl he remembers from when they were kids. He nods.

“Listen to him.”

Ian strokes his fingers up her forearm to draw her attention again. “The paramedics will get here. They’ll check him out; see he died of a stroke and know that _you_ called it in.”

Mandy stares at him for a few seconds and then nods. “Okay.”

“Mick, you gotta go.” Ian says quietly.

“The fuck I do.”

Ian shakes his head. “Think about it. You’re on _probation_ for attempted murder. They find you here with a dead body, they’re not gonna care if you did it or not.”

“Same way they didn’t care last time?” Mickey snaps. He knows Ian’s right, but he does _not_ like it.

“ _Mickey_ , please.”

Mickey sighs and nods jerkily. “Okay, fine. But you _call me_ the second it’s over, you hear me? Promise me, Ian.”

“Yeah. I promise.”

Ian looks pale and terrified out of his goddamn mind, so Mickey reaches out and squeezes the back of his neck. His hair’s getting a little long, and Mickey has to fight the sudden urge to run his fingers through it.

“Then I’ll see you at home, okay?”

He doesn’t let go or step away until Ian nods, and doesn’t bother looking at Mandy as he leaves.

He ends up at the Gallagher house. Mandy had refused to go back home, even with Ian attempting to persuade her. She’d locked herself in Ian’s room the second they got there, and after a couple seconds staring at each other, Ian had followed her. Mickey doesn’t blame him, really.

He sits on the Gallagher’s lumpy couch for another ten minutes, staring at a blank TV screen, before he drags himself upstairs and crashes on Ian’s old bed. He tries not to think about how it still smells like him, or about all the times they’d slept in it together.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep.

Mickey stumbles out of Carl and Liam’s room the next morning, blinking against the sunlight streaming into the hallway on his way to the bathroom. He stops at the sound of Mandy and Ian’s voices, and although he knows it’s probably _stupid_ and the chances of getting caught by someone are through the fucking roof. But he can’t seem to stop himself from padding further down the hall until he’s outside Ian’s door.

“It’s good, though, right? He’s a step up from my brother.”

Mickey flinches, because sure, that might be true. Caleb probably _is_ a step up from him, and Ian deserves nothing but the fucking best the world has to offer after all the shit he’s had dumped on him. But to hear it from Mandy? His own fucking _sister_? It stings. Sure, they haven’t ever been _close_ , and Mickey would as soon as never see any of his siblings again than have to deal with their shit, but still.

“Not really.” Ian says, and Mickey freezes, his breath hitching in his throat. “We’re not together anymore because he deserves better than _me_.”

He hears Mandy scoff. “Oh, come on. You’re a catch, how could he do better than you?”

For once they agree on something.

“No, you don’t. You don’t _get_ it.” And Mickey can _picture_ the way he shakes his head. “You weren’t around much during my diagnosis, and I don’t blame you. You had your own shit going on, but you weren’t here. He was. He saw all the crazy shit. _All_ of it. All the things it takes to keep me sane. I don’t. I don’t _want_ that for him.”

“Ian…”

“He deserves better than my brand of crazy.”

Mickey’s heart clenches. The voice in his head _screaming_ at him to barge in there and read him the fucking riot act for being so goddamn _stupid_.

“You’re _not_ crazy. But what about your firefighter? What’s the difference?”

Ian lets out a broken laugh. “The difference? I’m not in love with Caleb.”

What? _What_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sure i have 1000 things i'm meant to say down here but my brain honestly feels like it's about to melt out of my ears
> 
> i just wanna say thank you SO much for feedback this has been getting, you've all been so lovely to me and i'm just very <33 about it
> 
> find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/floristmick) and [tumblr](http://floristmick.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so firstly: sorry this has taken so long to get out - i had to take a couple of days out to do a uni assignment _and_ the beginning of this chapter was just...... a bitch to work through.
> 
> secondly: i know this was _meant_ to be the final chapter, but as soon as i started writing it i knew it was going to end up being incredibly long. so, i've split it where my plan made most sense to. i'm about a quarter of the way through my plan for the next chapter, though, so hopefully it shouldn't be too long until i post that one!!
> 
> once again i'm mildly terrified this chapter is complete wank, and that i've fucked everything up in writing it.
> 
> nevertheless a huge thank you to my personal cheering squad: [willa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse/pseuds/oforamuse/works), [michelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/statichearts/pseuds/statichearts/works), and [taylor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boneached/pseuds/boneached/works) i genuinely don't know if i would of got this far without you lmao

Everything seems to white out for a couple seconds, and he can’t hear anything over the pounding of his heartbeat. Mickey doesn’t move, isn’t even sure he _can_ , honestly. Every molecule screeches to a halt like in those old cartoons about the roadrunner, or whatever. Pack up, go home, nothing to see here, folks. His feet feel rooted to the spot, like his socks and the floorboards have come to the conclusion that _now_ the perfect fucking time to fuse together.

His mind, though? His mind is fucking _racing_. A thousand miles a minute, too fast to really catch and hold onto any one thought, kind of racing.

Ian is in love with him? Ian’s _in love_ with him? Ian’s in love. With _him_?

Holy. _Shit_.

Ian’s in love with him. Not Caleb. Not anybody else. _Him_.

Mickey finally manages to get his feet to cooperate. He gets one, two, _three_ steps closer to Ian’s door – to throwing the fucking thing open and asking Ian what the hell he’s been doing all this time – before those thousand miles a minute thoughts land on something else. Make him pause long enough for the doubt to start creeping in.

What if that’s not what Ian means? What if Ian _doesn’t_ love him? What if Ian just means he’s not in love with _Caleb_?

Sure, it’s what Mickey _thinks_ he means. What he _wants_ it to mean, more than just about anything. But Ian didn’t outright _say_ it, did he?

No way. It had been implied. Right? _‘I’m not in love with Caleb’_ definitely implies that he’s in love with Mickey. He might’ve flunked out freshmen year, but he’s pretty sure he remembers what fucking subtext is.

It’s too late, though. The doubt is there, in the back of his head.

Idiot. Why would Ian love _him_?

He takes two steps back and shakes his head. There’s not much time to think about it after that, because two sets of footsteps come pounding up the stairs. Carl and a girl Mickey doesn’t recognise appear at the top of the stairs a couple seconds later. Carl’s carrying something that looks like a microphone and Mickey really does _not_ want to know.

Carl smiles when he sees Mickey. “Morning.”

Mickey doesn’t answer immediately. He tries to. Opens his mouth to speak and everything. But nothing comes out. He swallows around a dry throat and tries again.

“Mornin’.” It’s about all he can manage at the moment, so he raises an eyebrow and glances at the girl.

Carl’s smile grows and he waggles his eyebrows. “This is Dom.”

Mickey nods at her in greeting. She gives him an unimpressed look, pops the gum she’s chewing on, and stalks into Carl’s bedroom. The way Carl watches her go is the complete opposite of subtle, and it makes Mickey’s mouth twitch. It doesn’t exactly take a rocket scientist to figure out what he’s aiming for, and Mickey is happy to know fuck all about it. He claps Carl on the shoulder and jerks his head after her.

Carl grins and follows her into the room, gently closing the door behind him. He also leaves Mickey to deal with his current predicament. Mickey’s never been one to shy away from a fight, but no matter how much he _wants_ to storm into Ian’s room and demand answers from him, something stops him. He can’t take the rejection. Not again. There’s no way he’d survive the fallout.

So, he takes another step back. With Carl now in the boys’ room, he’s kinda out of options on where to go. Not that it matters for very long, because Ian slides his bedroom door open a second later. He smiles when he spots Mickey, and Mickey tries really fucking hard not to read too much into it. It’s just a smile. The same fucking smile Ian has aimed at him a thousand times before. It doesn’t _mean_ anything.

Mickey smiles back.

“Mornin’, Mick.”

Ian sounds like he just woke up and the low rumble of his voice makes heat coil in Mickey’s belly. He swallows. Licks the corner of his mouth. _Forces_ himself to answer normally.

“Mandy still here?”

Ian nods. “Just packing up her shit.”

Mickey nods too and walks back towards him. Not like he has much of a choice right now – there’s nowhere else he _can_ go.

“Why?” Ian murmurs, and Mickey has _got_ to be going crazy because there’s _no reason_ Ian’s voice should be fucking him up this much. “You wanna talk to her?”

Mickey scoffs. “Fuck no. The hell have I gotta say to _her_?”

“That mean you wanna talk to _me_?”

Yes.

“No, asshole. It means I’m fuckin’ tired of waiting for your lazy ass to make breakfast.”

Liar.

Ian huffs out a quiet laugh. “And what? You need permission to go through our shit?”

Mickey chews on his bottom lip to stop himself from smiling again and raises an eyebrow. “See if I don’t eat all your cereal.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Jesus Christ, get a fucking room.”

At the sound of Mandy’s voice, Ian spins around. Not quick enough to hide how pink his face is suddenly is, and… _interesting_. Mickey ducks his head to hide his smile, even though there’s no way Mandy can see him.

“You going?”

“Yeah. About to head out.”

Ian doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders drop, and Mickey can’t see his face, but he can sure as shit picture the fucking pout. Ian’s still blocking the door, so Mickey sighs and leans against the opposite wall. A picture frame digs into his shoulder. The scrape of a hairbrush running through wet hair has him squeezing his eyes shut.

“You know I’m okay, right?” Mandy’s voice is way softer than it’s _ever_ been with Mickey. “I mean, the company I work for is a real business. Payroll checks, health insurance. They take Amex.”

Mickey snorts quietly before he can stop himself. Mandy clearly doesn’t hear it, thank _fuck_ , but Ian must, because he finally moves out of the doorway. Mandy’s wearing the same dress as last night, and someone must’ve cleaned it because it’s not covered in blood anymore.

“And I’m saving money. I got a nice apartment. You saw my car.”

Ian shakes his head. “Guy last night tried to _strangle_ you.”

Mandy’s face twists. “First time that’s happened. And I used to get beat up for free.”

“You only realising that now?” Mickey asks.

The look she gives him could curdle milk, and he scowls back at her. Fuck you too, bitch. Fuck her for giving a shit and throwing it back in his face.

“Whatever, asshole. What I got now is a hundred times better than what I had here. I don’t sleep with anyone I don’t want to, and I got regulars who are… like boyfriends.” She runs a hand through her hair and tries to smile at Ian. “One guy flew me to New York first class.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, but neither of them are looking at him to notice. He pushes off the wall, scratching at his belly as he heads for the stairs.

Whatever. Mandy’s a grown woman, Mickey doesn’t give a shit what she does anymore. It had been different when they were kids and only had each other to count on. But Mandy hasn’t given a shit about him in a _long_ time, and if he’s being truly honest with himself, he hasn’t cared about her either.

His stomach starts rumbling as he hits the bottom step and he sighs.

Mickey hasn’t lived here in years, but it doesn’t surprise him that everything is in the same place as it was when he _did_. It hits him, as he’s pulling two bowls from the cupboard, because Ian will bitch at him otherwise, how weird it should probably feel that he knows his way around this house as well as he does. But… it doesn’t. It feels normal. Like, he’s always been here.

There are a lot of things he’d missed in prison – decent orange juice, pizza rolls, his bed. Ian. Always Ian. What he hadn’t expected to miss until it was gone, though, was the Gallagher house. Of living here, being… fuck it. Being part of their family. Accepted. Maybe even liked.

Ian’s got an open box of his favourite cereal on top of the fridge, so Mickey grabs it before he pulls the door open to get the milk. Arms full, he closes the door with his hip and moves over to the counter. The front door slams as he’s opening the box, and he listens to the sound of someone shuffling through the living room. There’s a pause that seems to stretch on for a fucking _lifetime_ , before the front door slams again and the shuffling resumes.

Lip looks slightly dazed as he wanders into the kitchen, just as Ian comes racing down the stairs with a coffee mug in hand. All three of them freeze for a second, before Ian shakes his head and carries on walking over to the counter. Mickey watches him. It’s only been a couple minutes, but Ian looks different. Pale. Sad.

Not that Mickey can really blame him for it. He knows how important Mandy is to Ian, even if he’s never really understood what the appeal is. Ian’s lips twitch when he sees the cereal, and he places the coffee mug on the counter.

“How come you’re home?” He asks Lip.

Mickey slides a bowl of cereal towards Ian before going to put the milk back in the fridge As he does, he eyes up Lip. He looks pretty fucking rough – he’s still got the green face paint from last night caked across one temple, his hair is matted in places, and he looks like he just climbed out of a dumpster.

“That was, uh… Mandy.” Lip says, and _fuck_ he sounds worse than he looks. He squints at Mickey. “She back at your place?”

“Nah, man.” Mickey shakes his head and hip checks Ian out of the way when he tries to take both bowls. He raises his eyebrows at Ian’s smile, and clutches his bowl to his chest, turning around so he can lean against the counter.

“No, she just, uh, dropped in to say hi..”

Lip doesn’t look like he believes that for a second, but where usually he would argue, he nods. “That her Jeep out front?”

“Yeah. Yeah, she got a job.”

Mickey’s scoff is mostly hidden by the spoonful of cereal he’s just shovelled into his mouth, but Ian still elbows him. Lip glances at him, but nods again. Ian sniffs and picks up his bowl.

“How was the party?”

“Oh, it was boring.”

Before Mickey can call him out on being a liar, someone _else_ comes thundering down the stairs. Maybe he’s not so sure about that whole missing being here thing, after all. He glances over his shoulder to see Carl flying towards the counter. The bruise on his forehead is barely visible, even with the bandaid he’s using to cover it.

“Any of you guys got a condom?”

The fridge door opens and shuts behind Mickey, and then Lip says, “What?”

From this angle he can see the way Ian’s starting to smile, and he feels his own mouth start to pull up at the corners.

“A condom.”

Ian glances over his shoulder at Lip, smirk firmly in place, and it really shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. That Ian so clearly _loves_ being an older brother, loves bullying Carl over the dumbest shit, loves having Lip there to do it with him. Then he turns that smirk on Mickey, includes him in the fun. Mickey’s never been an older brother. Not really. But right now? It feels like he could be if he wanted.

“He say a condom?” Ian asks, jerking his head at Carl.

“Yeah.” Mickey and Lip say at the same time, grinning at each other.”

“Oh,” Ian says, winking at Mickey as he turns back to Carl, “you got a girl in your room?”

Mickey snorts.

“Yeah.” Carl points at the stairs, as if Dom’s gonna appear. “She only brought one.”

“Only one, huh?” Ian nods, and puts down his bowl so he can root around in his back pocket for his wallet.

Mickey can’t figure out if he’s happy to see Ian pull two condoms out, or not. On one hand, it means that if he and Caleb _are_ fucking, then at least Ian’s being safe about it. On the other, it means Ian’s had sex with Caleb. And, yeah, sure. Mickey asked him not to say anything if they did, but. The idea of it? _Stings_.

“Well,” Ian hands them over to Carl, “there you go. Two.”

“Thanks.” Carl calls out as he spins on his to run back up the stairs.

When he’s gone, Ian turns to them and raises his eyebrows. Lip frowns and points with his beer bottle – and when did Lip start drinking this early in the fucking day?

“Is that his first time?”

Ian shakes his head. “Who knows?”

They stare at each other for a couple seconds before grinning.

Lip lifts his bottle in toast. “To Carl.”

Things fall quiet for a moment, all three of them just smiling at each other.

Then Lip frowns at Ian and points his bottle at him. “Thought you had that test thing today?”

Ian checks his watch, cursing around his mouthful of cereal and sending milk flying everywhere. He wipes at his chin with his sleeve and slams the bowl down on the counter.

“I gotta go.” He claps Mickey on the shoulder, smiling a little at the way he jerks forwards. Lip’s too far away for him to do the same, so he just nods at him. “Wish me luck, or whatever.”

Ian is pale under the few freckles he still has, and Mickey studies him for a second. His smile, obviously supposed to make them feel better, doesn’t meet his eyes, and his shoulders look a little rigid. Ian’s a very good liar about a _lot_ of things, but he’s never been able to hide his nerves from Mickey. Or Lip, apparently, judging by the frown between his eyebrows.

“Hey, lemme know how it goes?” Lip asks.

Ian nods again and takes a deep, steadying breath. Mickey watches him move over to the backdoor and grab his coat from one of the pegs.

“Don’t fuck it up, man.”

Ian pauses in pulling on his coat so he can flip Mickey off. There’s a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, though, so Mickey counts it as a win.

He’s gone a moment later, the backdoor slamming shut behind him.

After a couple seconds of silence, Lip takes a drink of his beer and raises his eyebrows. Mickey ignores him and dumps his bowl in the sink, wiping his hands off on his jeans.

“I gotta get to work.”

*

Rex is staring at him again. He does it a lot when he thinks Mickey can’t see him, and usually Mickey just ignores it because what the fuck ever, right? But today, it is slowly driving him nuts.

“What?” He snaps.

He’s been in a bad mood since he got here, he _knows_ he has. But he can’t seem to drop it, to turn off the part of his brain that keeps running through what happened this morning.

_Does he love me? Does he love me? Does he love me?_

And ain’t that a dumb fucking question? Of _course,_ Ian loves him. Mickey’s known that particular fact since he was eighteen years old and Ian chased him down some North Side back alley after beating up that old creep with too much money _and_ time on his hands.

He’s probably known it even long than that, if he lets himself think about it.

So, it’s not… it’s not that Mickey doesn’t think Ian loves him. He’s _never_ thought that. Not even when they were on opposite sides of that fucking glass, and he asked Ian to lie to him. There hasn’t been one, _single_ , moment since that first time they fucked that Mickey hasn’t understood on some deep, molecular, level that Ian Gallagher loves him.

He just doesn’t know if Ian loves him _enough_.

“You okay? You’ve been kinda… weird today.” Rex says, snapping him out of wherever the fuck his brain had taken him.

He scowls. “I’m fine.”

“You sure? You _can_ talk to us, y’know?”

Eddie scoffs from behind the counter. She’s sorting through a box of parts, her pen tapping against the edge of the desk as she works. “Don’t include _me_ in that ‘us’, asshole.”

Rex rolls his eyes, but his beard twitches like he’s smiling. “ _Fine_. You can talk to _me_ , Mickey.”

Mickey really shouldn’t be surprised that apparently Rex is holding an intervention; it’s almost lunchtime, which means the shop is finally quiet. If there were a time to do it, it would be now.

He lowers the rag he’s using to clean some tools and raises an eyebrow at Rex. “Why the fuck would I wanna do that?”

“We’re _friends_ , genius.”

Mickey opens his mouth to contradict him, because like _fuck_ they are. But, well. That’s not exactly true, anymore, is it? They _know_ shit about him. The kinda shit you don’t have to _tell_ people; they just figure it out on their own. Like, how he takes his coffee, and what his favourite flavour of pie is, and what brand of cigarettes he smokes. They know the important shit, too. They know about _Ian_ , for fuck sake.

“Better not be about your fucking boyfriend, _again_ , though.” Eddie says, using the pen to scratch behind her ear.

“Thought you didn’t want me to talk to you.”

She sniffs. “I don’t. Not _my_ fault you guys are so loud.”

Brad’s office door bangs open, followed by the sound of Brad himself swearing under his breath. He frowns at the three of them and rubs a hand over the back of his head.

“You guys wanna get lunch early? I feel like I’m goin’ crazy in there.”

Rex, always ready to start slacking, nods.

“Alright, well,” Brad glances around the shop, “clear up what you can and let’s get this show on the road.”

It doesn’t take them that long to clear up. They’ve kinda turned it into an artform at this point. It’s not like they’re cleaning up for the day anyway, so things don’t get put away as neatly as they maybe _should_ be. But Mickey’s ready for something to take his mind off the whole… Ian _thing_ that’s been following him around since this morning.

His phone starts vibrating in his pocket as Brad leads the way out onto the main street. He hangs back a little as he fishes it out and checks the caller ID.

Lip.

Mickey frowns. The fuck does Lip want? He looks up from his phone to see Brad and the others watching him, and he shakes his head.

“I’ll catch up.”

Brad doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t argue. He jerks his head at Eddie and Rex, and they head off down the sidewalk. Mickey has no doubt they’ll be lingering on the next street corner, but he appreciates the pretence of privacy anyway.

He slides his finger over the answer button and lifts the phone to his ear. “You okay?”

“Can’t I just wanna say hi? Why’s something gotta be wrong?”

Mickey snorts. “You gonna answer my question, or are we just gonna go ‘round in circles?”

Lip sighs down the other end, breath crackling against the receiver. “Well, I kinda just got kicked outta the sorority, so. You know. Things are going great for me right now.”

“Fuck.” Mickey breathes out. “You got somewhere to go?”

“Why? You gonna offer me a place to stay again?” Lip laughs a little, although it’s bitter around the edges. “I already told you, I’m not getting in the middle of whatever the fuck’s going on between you and Ian. Don’t think I didn’t notice something was up this morning.”

Mickey absolutely does _not_ wanna talk about this. Especially not in the middle of the fucking street. So, he coughs, wipes at his nose, shuffles his feet. Lip can’t see him, but the movement makes him feel a little better. More grounded, or whatever.

“Fuck _off_. I’m heading to _Patsy’s_ with some of the guys from work. If you wanna come, or whatever.”

“You asking me out on a date, Mick?”

Mickey groans. “Why are you so fuckin’ _annoying_? Yes or no?”

Lip laughs outright this time. “I’ll be there.”

“Was that so difficult?”

Lip’s still laughing when he hangs up, and he tries really fucking hard to wipe the smile off his face as he goes to catch up with Brad. He’s not surprised, at all, because Brad is probably the most obvious fucker on the planet, to find them hanging out on the next street corner.

“Everything okay?” Brad asks, squinting at him in the afternoon sunshine.

It’s not hot, or anything, but the sun is bright and glaring, and it reflects off a nearby shop window into Mickey’s eyes. He shields his face as best he can and nods.

“Yeah, everything’s cool.”

The lunchtime rush is just starting to hit by the time they get to _Patsy’s_. Their usual table is already taken, so Brad leads them over to a booth against the back wall. He frowns a little when Mickey waits for Rex to sit down first before sliding onto the bench.

“You got somewhere else to be?” He asks, as he shoos Eddie further across their side of the table.

Mickey shakes his head. “Waiting for someone.”

“Your boyfriend? Don’t think I can stomach you two making heart eyes at each other.”

“How many fuckin’ _times_?” Mickey scowls. “And no. Someone else.”

“You have friends?” Eddie grins at him because he can’t kick her like he usually would.

“Fuck off.” Mickey says, because he doesn’t really know how else to answer that question.

What exactly _are_ they, he and Lip? They’d been friends, once, a _very_ long time ago. _Best_ friends, even. The kind that went over to each other’s houses and were proud to tell other people ‘he’s my best friend in the whole world’. Then life had got in the way, and suddenly they weren’t such good friends anymore. It had taken years for them to really talk again, and that had only been because of Ian. And then Ian’s diagnosis had happened, and for a while there it had felt like maybe there _was_ something between them other than a shared concern for Ian.

But then Mickey had gone to prison, and hadn’t that fucked _everything_ up all at once, and by the time he got out it felt a lot like they’d gone back to the beginning again.

He doesn’t know, is the point. But he _does_ know Lip would laugh at him if he had any idea what was going through Mickey’s head right now.

And, well. Maybe that answers the fucking question.

“He has us!” Rex nudges him with his elbow, snorting when Mickey swats at him and rolls his eyes.

“Would you knock that shit off?”

“Why? You scared to admit you _like_ us?” Eddie flicks the menu at him.

Yes. Terrified out of his goddamn mind.

Liking people has never exactly worked out well for him. They always disappear the second he lets them in, lets them close enough to _see_ who he is.

He spots Lip through the window, his usual birds nest hair getting ruffled in the breeze as his shoulders hunch. The second he steps inside, he starts unwinding the scarf from around his neck, and Mickey watches him scan the room.

Mickey doesn’t so much as blink, just keeps his eyes trained on Lip until he spots them sitting in the corner. He raises an eyebrow at Lip as he approaches.

“Took your fuckin’ time, College.”

Lip finishes taking off his scarf and flicks the end of it at Mickey. “Sorry. Some of us had to come from across town.”

“This the friend you were talking about?” Brad asks, because of _course_ he does.

Lip turns to Mickey, mouth pulling up in a smirk as he raises his eyebrows. “Friend, huh?”

“Man, shut up. They’re putting words in my fuckin’ mouth.”

“It’s okay, Mick.” Lip says, smirk turning into a full-on smile now. “You can tell people we’re friends. It’s not a crime.”

That draws Mickey up short. Lip… thinks they’re _friends_? Like, _actual_ friends? Like, people who willingly hang out with each other, and don’t just do it when they have nothing better to do? Who tell each other shit?

People who invite each other to college sorority parties, and who hang out in abandoned buildings literally shooting the shit. People who always willing to listen, even when they’re not so good at the talking part.

Fuck. They _are_ friends.

Mickey realises, on some level, that everyone is introducing themselves, and he knows that someone is bound to call him out for zoning out on them. But he’s too caught up in the realisation that he and Lip are _friends_ to really care much.

When the _fuck_ had that happened? When had they gone from being two dumbass kids angry with the whole fucking world and taking it out on each other, to… this? To hanging out in a diner, because apparently, they _like_ each other now. And, yeah, okay. Mickey’s known he… cares… about Lip for a while, he’s not _stupid_ , he knows his own emotions. But it’s one thing to know you care, and another to suddenly be friends.

Mickey hasn’t had a whole lot of those. It’s kinda weird.

He doesn’t hate it, though. He kinda likes it. Maybe.

Lip snags a nearby chair, dragging it across the floor and spinning it around so he can straddle it. The sound of wood scraping against linoleum startles Mickey, draws him back into the real world. Lip’s watching Mickey, that _stupid_ fucking smirk still in place, like he knows some great big secret about the universe that everyone else is too dumb to figure out.

“Hey, fellas.” A familiar voice calls out, and Mickey doesn’t need to turn his head to know Fiona’s approaching them.

She comes to a stop at the edge of their table, planting her hands on her hips as she smiles at them. Some of her hair has escaped its ponytail, and she keeps blowing it outta her face. She nudges Lip.

“What’re you doing here?”

Lip shrugs. “Am I not allowed?”

Fiona’s smile turns into a frown _real_ quick. “No, I just. I thought you’d have class, that’s all.”

Lip snorts and picks at the back of his chair. “Maybe I’m skipping.”

“Lip… You gotta–.”

“Look, just… lay off. Alright? For once?”

Fiona looks like she wants to argue. Which seems, to Mickey’s knowledge, to be Fiona’s default reaction to anything she doesn’t like. Something stops her this time, though. She rolls her shoulders and smiles again, switching her attention to the rest of them.

“You guys know what you want?”

Brad nods and starts listing off their order. Mickey watches Lip’s eyebrows climb towards his hairline the longer the list gets and can’t help smiling when Lip glances at him. Brad and his fucking pie. It had taken a while for him to get used to it, too.

“You need anything else, you let me know, okay?” Fiona says, backing away from them.

“Fi?” Lip calls after her, and the way he turns looks uncomfortable as fuck. “Can I get a strawberry milkshake?”

There’s gotta be something there – some hidden Gallagher secret – because Fiona smiles, genuinely this time, and nods.

“Sure thing.”

“So, what was up with you this morning, huh?” Lip asks, taking an obnoxiously loud sip of his milkshake. His fingers drum against the back of his chair as he waits for an answer.

Mickey can’t say he wasn’t expecting this. He’d definitely be lying. But it still comes as something of a surprise, just how blunt Lip can be when he feels like it. He glances up from his slice of pie, suddenly _painfully_ aware of the way everyone else is watching him. His fork clatters against the plate as he sighs and leans against the back of the booth.

“What?”

“Don’t.” Lip says, shaking his head. “Don’t try and pretend you don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. You and Ian.”

Eddie groans, long and loud, and turns back to her pie. “The fucking boyfriend? _Again_?”

Mickey flips her off as Lip chokes on a laugh. Brad studies him over the top of his coffee mug before he lowers it back to the table. Coffee sloshes out onto table, and he grabs a napkin to idly wipe at it.

“You’ve been weird all day.”

“I have not.”

Rex coughs beside him, and Mickey fights the urge to hit him. What is it with these assholes and thinking they _know_ him? They don’t know shit.

“Something happen?” Lip continues, rolling his straw between two fingers. “With Mandy?”

Yes.

“No. Nothing happened. I don’t know what the fuck you guys are talkin’ about.”

Lip sighs. Scratches at the stubble on his jaw. “You were both being fuckin’ weird, alright? So, spill. I’m not in the mood to watch you mope.”

Mickey really doesn’t want to have this conversation. Not here. Not in front of the people he works with. But, well. He _trusts_ Lip. And isn’t that weird? At some point, without his consent, something in his brain had decided he could trust Lip fucking Gallagher with the most important parts of himself.

“Fuck you, I don’t _mope_.” Mickey says, scowling when Lip slurps at his milkshake and raises his eyebrows. Brad is clearly trying to hide a smile as he ducks over his piece of key lime pie. “Alright, _fine_. Heard Ian say he’s not in love with Caleb.”

Lip doesn’t say anything for a couple seconds. Just stares at him. The he scoffs. “Obviously.”

“Yeah, okay, asshole. The way he said it made it look like he’s not in love with Caleb because he’s…” Mickey trails off, clears his throat, and hopes against fucking hope he’s not blushing as much as it feels like he is, “in love with me.”

Lip sets his glass down on the edge of the table. Nods slowly. “Obviously.”

Mickey gapes at him. “The _fuck_ you mean ‘obviously’?”

“Well,” Lip says, thumbing at his nose, “don’t gotta be a genius to figure out you’re in love with him. And it’s like I told you the other day, right? Ian acts like he’s moving on, or whatever, but the way he feels about you doesn’t just disappear.”

Mickey hadn’t really believed him, the first time around. He’s not sure he really believes Lip _now_ , either. It’s just… it’s a lot, is the thing. Being loved by Ian Clayton Gallagher is _a lot_.

“If you weren’t here then _maybe_ he’d get over you.” Lip continues because there is no filter between his brain and his mouth. “Maybe. But you are here, so. There’s no way.”

“How d’you even know all this?” Eddie asks, and the way she checks him out is _not_ subtle. At all.

The way he checks her out in return isn’t at all subtle either, and Mickey kinda wants to sink into the floor.

“Ian’s my brother.”

“So, what do you do?” Brad asks him.

As Lip launches into an explanation of whatever the fuck it is he studies, Mickey finishes off his slice of pie. He fishes his phone outta his pocket and taps it against his thigh.

What the fuck is he even meant to _say_? ‘We need to talk’? It’s true, they do, but that sounds too much like an ultimatum, like Mickey’s about to end everything they’ve managed to build over the past few months. ‘Heard what you said to Mandy earlier’? No way. That’s the kinda shit he needs to bring up in person. Besides, he texts Ian that and he’s gonna be off his game for the EMT exam. No fucking _way_ Mickey’s risking that. He’s seen how hard Ian’s worked for it, he’s not gonna be responsible for ruining it. ‘Good luck, I love you’? Mickey shuts _that_ idea down almost as soon as he thinks it. _Definitely_ not. Too gay. Too… vulnerable. Too honest.

Mickey is a _very_ good liar.

He unlocks his phone with the swipe of a thumb and quickly pulls up his messages. He knows, in the way someone who has spent an entire lifetime being hunted knows, that he’s being watched. Lip ain’t subtle. About anything, really, but especially not when he’s worried. Might as well be wearing a flashing sign on his goddamn forehead screaming it to the world, for how subtle he is.

He shakes his head. Once.

_12:24: kick some ass today gallagher_

*

If someone had asked Mickey a year ago if he would willingly spend most of his day with Lip Gallagher, he would have laughed in their face and called them crazy.

But. Well. Things change, apparently.

Lip comes back to the shop with them after lunch, because Brad asks if he wants to, and Lip agrees because he’s running away from something. This whole ‘reading each other like an open book’ shit goes both ways. He might not know _what_ Lip’s running away from – and that’s only a matter of time, because Mickey plans on getting it out of him as soon as they’re alone – but he knows it’s something important.

Mickey has always known that Lip is smart, right? Like, that’s kinda been his whole… _thing_ , for as long as Mickey can remember. The first thing anyone ever thinks when they think of Philip Ronan Gallagher is “really fucking smart”. Closely, in Mickey’s personal opinion, followed by “really fucking annoying”.

But it’s one thing to know it in the abstract – to _know_ that Lip is a genius, to _know_ that Lip understands the rules of the universe in ways that Mickey’s never gonna be able to, to _know_ that Lip carries the weight of his family’s expectations on his shoulders because of how smart he is. He’d told Mickey, once, when they were kids, that he _hates_ how smart he is. That he _hates_ the way Fiona looks at him sometimes – like he’s their ticket outta the South Side.

So, it’s one thing to know it, but it’s something else completely to _see_ it.

Lip follows Mickey around pretty much the whole time, and Mickey _knows_ it’s at least partly because he knows it bugs him. He looks too fucking pleased with himself whenever Mickey huffs out an irritated sigh for it to not be at least a little true. But, well, Mickey’s not above giving him credit when it’s deserved. And Lip does. Deserve it. He asks all the right questions and picks up the basics like he’s been there for weeks, rather than a couple hours.

And here’s the part Mickey really wasn’t expecting: Lip fits in. He jokes with Rex, he gives Eddie as much shit as she dishes out, he listens to Brad. He lets Mickey show him what to do, lets Mickey _teach_ him. He _trusts_ Mickey. And that? Means a hell of a lot more than Mickey is willing to think about for longer than a second at a time.

By the time they’re closing up for the day, Mickey’s half convinced Brad’s gonna offer Lip a job on the spot. He _doesn’t_ , thank fuck. But that might be because Mickey ushers Lip out the door before he has much of a chance.

They end up at _The Alibi_. Because of course they do. Where else are two kids from Canaryville gonna _go_?

Mickey doesn’t remember ever spending this much time just _hanging out_ with Lip. Sure, there were times, back when Ian was in the middle of getting his diagnosis, where they’d been forced to spend time together. But that hadn’t been a choice; they’d both been there for Ian, nothing else had mattered. Sure, they’d been _friends_ as kids. But Mickey doesn’t remember what that was like, really, outside of talking baseball statistics, and making fun of Mrs Raymer’s lisp, and sometimes sharing sandwiches if his mom remembered to make any.

This, though? There is no excuse for this. They’re just… hanging out.

And, okay, yeah. Mickey _knows_ they’ve been doing that a lot lately. It’s becoming _a thing_ that they do. He’s not gonna pretend it’s not. But this is different. This isn’t so they can bitch about their problems and have someone tell them they’re being stupid. Not completely, anyway.

Mickey might be going slightly insane.

What really seals it, though, is that the woman behind the bar – who Mickey has _never_ been able to remember the name of – doesn’t look at all surprised to see them come in together. She barely even glances up from the pint she’s pouring for a guy sat at the bar. Just long enough to nod at them and call out a greeting.

“Evenin’, boys. You want your usual?”

“Thanks!”

Instead of heading to the bar like Mickey was expecting, Lip chooses the booth closest to the bathroom. Mickey slides onto the bench opposite him with a frown, and Lip smiles a little. He roots around in his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes, pulling a face when he sees there are only a few left.

“No one in here can keep a secret for shit.” Is what Lip says as he pulls a cigarette free, hooking it in his mouth so he can find a lighter.

Mickey snorts. “What kinda sleepover shit you pulling here, College?”

Lip makes a victorious noise as he pulls a lighter out of an inside pocket. “You telling me we’re _not_ gonna talk about Ian? ‘Cause I’m calling bullshit.”

“What’s there to talk about?”

“What you’re gonna do about it, for one.” Lip says, lighting up. He takes a deep drag and hums.

That makes Mickey pause. What _is_ he gonna do about it? He knows _something_ needs to happen. They can’t keep doing… this. Whatever _this_ is. But there’s a tiny little voice in the back of his head that loves reminding him what happened last time he told the truth.

 _This is it. This is you breaking up with me_.

He’s saved from having to answer by the woman from behind the bar showing up out of nowhere, two beer bottles and a shot of something that looks like whiskey in hand. She sets them down with a wink.

“Fellas.”

Mickey watches her go with a small, bemused smile. “I got… _no_ idea who she is.”

“Me neither, they all kinda blur into one.” Lip says, tapping ash into the grubby ashtray. “Anyway, stop changing the subject. What’re you gonna do?”

“I don’t know.” Mickey snaps. “I don’t fuckin’ _know_ , okay? Last time I said anything, he broke up with me. I ain’t exactly in a hurry to repeat it, y’know?”

Lip nods and reaches for his shot. He hisses as he downs it, eyes squinting a little against the burn. “Alright. I think you’re being stupid, but okay.”

“Thanks for your infinite wisdom.” Mickey snarks back because he can’t help himself. He reaches for his beer bottle, fingers playing with the paper label. “What happened to _you_ today? Why’d you come to the shop?”

Lip scoffs and takes another drag. “Oh, you know. Got kicked outta my place, got fired from my job, got signed up for mandatory AA. Nothing major.”

Mickey’s not sure which of those to start with, so he takes a sip of his beer. He wipes a hand over his mouth and frowns. “How?”

“Things… _mighta_ got a little outta hand last night. Did some shit I don’t remember.”

Mickey’s phone starts vibrating against his thigh, but he ignores it. “Like _what_?”

Lip actually looks _embarrassed_ , so Mickey knows whatever it is, is bad. Like, _really_ bad. Lip’s the most unapologetic asshole Mickey knows. “I don’t–.”

“Lip,” Mickey says, and _that_ gets his attention because Mickey _never_ uses his name, “we were _just_ talking ‘bout me being in love with your brother. C’mon, man.”

Lip sighs, takes a long pull from his beer, and offers Mickey his cigarette. “Like I said, I don’t _remember_ doin’ it, but. Apparently, I. Pissed? On a buncha shit? Including my boss.”

There’s a part of Mickey that wants to laugh because it sounds so fucking _stupid_. Like, it sounds so unbelievably dumb that there’s no way it can be real. But Lip’s not laughing. Lip, for all that it’s worth, looks a little like he hates himself. And Mickey understands _that_ more than anyone.

“Everyone does stupid shit when they’re drunk, man.”

Lip huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s what I said. Still gotta go to this AA shit, though.”

“Or what?”

“They kick me out.” Lip laughs again, and it sounds so fucking broken around the edges, splintered and waiting to shatter around them. “I’ve already pissed ‘em off a couple times. Not like I gotta choice, y’know?”

Mickey _needs_ to know what Lip means by that. He _has_ to. “How the fuck did _you_ piss ‘em off?”

Lip smiles a little and launches into an explanation of how, exactly, he pissed off his college. Mickey tries not to look impressed at the amount of property damage Lip managed to rack up in the space of, like, ten minutes.

His phone starts vibrating again, and he huffs as he pulls it out. Whatever annoyance he mighta been feeling melts away when he sees the caller ID.

 _Ian_.

“Hey,” he says quietly, flipping Lip off when he grins at him, “what’s up?”

“Where are you?” Ian asks, and he sounds a little outta breath. Like he’s been running. “You’re not at home.”

 _Home_. Something about Ian saying it makes his heart ache.

“Great job figuring that out, genius.”

“Where _are_ you, asshole?”

“ _The Alibi_.” He raises his eyebrows at Lip in silent question, breathing out when Lip nods. “With Lip.”

Ian laughs in his ear, and Mickey closes his eyes to try and get a hold of himself. Jesus _Christ_ , he is a grown fucking man, he shouldn’t be this easily effected.

“I’m starting to think you like him more than me.”

Mickey grins. “He’s less annoying than you are.”

“I know _that’s_ not true.” Ian sighs. “Okay, I’ll meet you there in a couple minutes.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Mickey agrees.

“Bye.”

Mickey refuses to fall into a game of who hangs up first, because contrary to current evidence, he is _not_ a teenage girl twirling a pigtail around her finger. Instead, he hangs up and places his phone on the table. He raises an eyebrow at the look Lip is giving him.

“What?”

“It’s kinda cute, really.” Lip says, shit eating grin firmly in place. “You get all… soft over him.”

“Fuck off.” Mickey grumbles, but it’s not like he can really argue, is it? He _does_. He knows he does.

“You’re adorable.” Lip laughs when Mickey throws a coaster at him, just managing to duck out of the way. “You know, seeing how you act around him totally ruins whatever reputation you had.”

Mickey shrugs and thumbs at his bottom lip. It doesn’t bother him, really. He _knows_ he can kick some ass if he needs to. “You’ve never been scared of me anyway.”

“Oh, I was scared of you alright.” Lip says, and there’s a glint in his eye that promises trouble. “You used to eat oranges without peeling them.”

That startles a laugh out of him. It had been _once_ , on a dare, and he’d got five bucks outta it. That’s a lotta money to a seven year old who just wants his own pack of Twizzlers.

“Hey, fuck you. That was a onetime deal.”

“You sure?”

Mickey flips him off instead of answering, and fiddles with his beer bottle.

The front door opens, and Mickey is fucking embarrassed at just how fast he sits up straight when Ian walks in. He hears Lip scoff at him and kicks him under the table. Ian spots him almost immediately and Mickey tries not to think too hard about the way he smiles.

“Hey.”

“So,” Lip says, shuffling over to the edge of his seat, “how’d it go? You pass?”

Mickey can tell Ian’s trying not to smile – sees the way he’s biting the inside of his lip and the way his nose has started to scrunch. So can Lip, clearly, because he gets to his feet and puts his hands on Ian’s shoulders.

“You passed?”

Ian lets the smile break free and ducks his head. “Perfect scores.”

Lip laughs, pulling Ian into a hug that Mickey sees him _sink_ into. Ian’s face is hidden in Lip’s neck, his fingers gripping the back of Lip’s coat so tight his knuckles are white. Mickey can’t hear exactly what Lip is saying to him, but he thinks he hears _‘I’m so fucking proud of you_ ’.

Not that it’s any of his business; Ian and Lip’s relationship is its own beast that he’s never going to truly understand.

Which is fine, really. He’d been jealous, once, of just how much they mean to each other, of how willing they are to throw everything aside for one another. But recently… well. It hasn’t exactly escaped his notice that Ian isn’t the only one Lip drops everything for.

It makes his chest feel tight, and warm, and _settled_ in a way he doesn’t remember ever having before. Like, he could get used to feeling like this, and he’s not sure he can trust it. Not yet. It’s too soon. So, for now it just makes him a little antsy.

Lip claps Ian on the back and finally pulls away, sniffing extra loud as he moves one of his hands to Ian’s neck.

Ian grins at him. “Soft motherfucker.”

Which is rich, honestly, because even in the shitty lighting Mickey can see that his eyes are wet. Lip snorts softly and pats his cheek.

“Shut the fuck up.” He lets Ian go so he can sit down next to Mickey, and calls over to the woman, “Next round’s on me.”

“Sure thing.” She calls back.

Mickey nudges Ian’s thigh with his knee. “Good job, genius.”

Ian’s smile fades a little. “Thanks, Mick.”

Lip drops down opposite them, getting his pack of cigarettes out again. He grunts when he pulls the last one out the box. As he’s lighting up, he studies Ian’s face with narrowed eyes.

“What’s up with you?”

Ian sighs and scratches at his jaw. He’s like a fucking heater against Mickey’s leg, and Mickey can feel his palms starting to sweat a little.

“I passed, but, uh. I gotta fill out some paperwork. Before I can start, right? They’ve gotta do a… background… check on me?”

“And? So what?”

Lip looks like he understands, though, and it makes Mickey’s heart sink. “Mental health check, right?”

Fuck.

Ian nods jerkily. “Perfect fucking scores on both the written _and_ the practical, and they wanna stop me from being an EMT because I spent a couple days in an inpatient programme.”

Mickey’s heart breaks a little at the look on Ian’s face. The frustration is obvious, the anger’s understandable, but it’s the acceptance that hurts the most. Mickey _knows_ how little Ian thinks of himself – he’s _heard him say it_. It’s not fair. Not only that Ian had his whole future ripped away from him _once_ , but that he’s being denied this one too all because of something he can’t help.

“So, lie.” Lip says, passing the cigarette over to Ian as he blows a stream of smoke out the side of his mouth.

Ian smiles a little but it’s not a happy one. “Caleb said the same thing. Thinks it’s none of their business. Even said he’d help me with the paperwork, if I wanted.”

Lip scoffs. “I might not like the prick, but I think he’s right.”

Mickey hates to admit it, but this one time, Caleb’s probably right. It makes something hot coil in his belly, unwanted and unbidden. Caleb knows this life better than Mickey ever will. Can _help_ Ian in ways Mickey can’t.

But Ian’s not in love with him.

It’s that thought that kicks Mickey into overdrive. Words don’t cost anything. Nothing wrong with just… listening. _Use the fucker, Ian_.

“Ain’t that illegal? Refusin’ to hire someone ‘cause of their mental health?”

Lip nods slowly. “Physical disabilities too.”

“I dunno.” Ian says, reaching over for Mickey’s beer because whatever her name is, she still hasn’t brought the next round over. “Isn’t it wrong, though? To lie about it? Watch if they catch me?”

“Then at least you tried.” Lip says, leaning across the table so he can tap Ian’s forearm. “Ian… my _brother_ … you have worked too fuckin’ hard for this to be the end of it, alright?”

Ian stares at him for a couple seconds before he looks at Mickey. There’s that self-doubt again.

Mickey nods. “You should do it.”

“Yeah?”

Mickey wants to reach out and touch him. Put his hand on Ian’s thigh, his back, his shoulder. _Something_. But he doesn’t, because… he doesn’t really _know_ why, honestly. He just doesn’t. He _does_ dig his knee into Ian’s thigh again though.

“Fuck yeah, man. You’ve worked really fuckin’ hard, it ain’t fair they get to just take it away.”

There’s a part of him that wants to bring up how _alive_ Ian looks now, how settled in his own body he is, how _confident_ this whole thing has made him. But if Mickey starts thinking about it for too long, lets himself remember where they were a year ago, how fucking _far_ Ian has come – by _himself_ , because no one else has done it for him, no matter how much they may have wanted to – he’ll start crying. And that is something he doesn’t _ever_ plan on doing in front of Lip, thank you _very_ much.

Mickey catches sight of the woman wandering towards them out the corner of his eye. She sets them on the table and studies the three of them. “You look happy, good news?

Lip grins. “Guess who’s gonna be an EMT?”

The way he looks at Ian _dares_ him to disagree. Ian smiles. It’s a small thing, a little unsure and not quite genuine, but it’s still _there_ and that’s all that really matters to Mickey.

She lets out a startled laugh and rests a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “No way! Congrats!”

“Thanks.” Ian keeps his eyes on Lip as he says it. His thigh presses against Mickey’s leg, and Mickey catches the way he glances at him.

He fights a smile as she lets go of Ian.

“In that case, these’re on the house.”

“No, it’s okay.” Ian tries to say, but she waves him off.

“No way. Don’t worry about it, Kev would want me to. You should celebrate.”

Lip takes his beer and shrugs when Ian looks at him. “Thanks.”

She nods and walks off again to do whatever it was she’d been doing before talking to them.

“So,” Lip says around the top of his bottle, “you gonna do it?”

Ian doesn’t answer him straight away, just plays with his bottle and scratches at the label with a thumb. He looks at Mickey before he says anything, eyes searching his face in a way that makes Mickey feel like his insides are made of fucking jello. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Mickey drinks his beer to hide the way he smiles, although from the way Ian matches him, he doesn’t do a very good job.

“So, what did you guys do today?” Ian asks.

Mickey shares a quick look with Lip. It had become something of an unspoken rule between them not to tell Ian what they talk about when they hang out. Mickey for obvious fucking reasons, and Lip because whatever he has to tell Ian isn’t gonna come from Mickey’s mouth. Lip’s shit is his own.

And today – Lip skipping class and getting kicked out of his room? Seems like the kinda thing _he_ needs to tell Ian. So, he looks at Lip, sees him shake his head a little behind his beer bottle, and dives into talking about an order they’d got at the shop that morning. He’s careful to leave any mention of Lip out.

Mickey will never fucking admit it, but it’s kinda nice. Being here with Lip and Ian. Seeing the way they so obviously _love_ each other. Every little joke, and smile, and laugh comes from a place of comfort, from _years_ of being comfortable with each other. Of knowing that they’re safe. Loved. It’s kinda breath-taking to watch, honestly.

The only person Mickey’s ever had something similar with is _Ian_ , and it’s not exactly the same. It can’t be. That doesn’t mean what they have is _less_ than what Ian and Lip have together. It’s just different. Same way that whatever the fuck is going on between him and Lip is different.

Mickey’s on his third beer when Lip and Ian’s phones start ringing. Lip gets to his seconds before Ian, and he frowns down at the screen heavily.

“We gotta go.”

“What’s up?” Mickey asks.

“It’s Debbie,” Lip says, barely glancing up from his phone as he taps out a quick response, “she’s having the baby.”

Ian’s already scooting out of the booth, draining the last of his beer as he gets to his feet, and Lip’s not far behind. Mickey flounders for a second, unsure of whether to move or not. He’s not actually part of their family, no matter how much it might feel like he _is_ sometimes. Ian turns around when he doesn’t move, and frowns lightly at him.

“You’re not coming?”

“You want me to?”

Lip snorts as he straightens his coat, snagging his beer bottle and downing half in one go. “You’re family.”

Mickey tries not to smile, but he knows it doesn’t really work. He thumbs at the corner of his mouth and shrugs. “Guess I am, then.”

As he’s getting out of his seat, Lip heads over to the bar with their empty bottles and places them on the stained wood with a noisy clink of glass. Standing up makes Mickey’s head swim a little and he sways forwards without meaning to. Ian reaches out to steady him, palm warm and solid against his collarbone.

“You okay?”

Mickey grunts, lets himself relax under Ian’s hand, nods. “Yeah.”

Ian’s hand lingers, like he doesn’t wanna let go, and Mickey forces himself not to think about it because there are so many _more important_ things going on right now.

“Let’s _go_.” Lip calls from the bar.

Mickey ducks out from under Ian’s hand, and he doesn’t miss the way Ian’s face falls, but he also doesn’t do anything about it. If he does, he might go fucking nuts.

“I thought Debbie was with those hippies.” He says, partly to distract himself from whatever the fuck is going on with Ian right now, and mostly because the last he’d known Debbie _had_ fucked off to that hippie commune.

“So did I.” Ian says, coming up behind him.

Lip shrugs. “Well, she’s not now.”

Mickey turns to Ian, small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Ready to deliver a baby, Mr EMT?”

The Gallagher house is in chaos when they get there. There are so many people in the living room it’s kinda hard to tell where one person ends, and another begins. Fiona’s voice can be heard over everything else, though.

“Lay down, lay down, lay down.”

Mickey’s last through the door, Ian and Lip immediately rushing over to where Debbie’s being guided onto the couch. He shuts the door behind them, takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly before he turns around again, almost colliding with Kev. Kev puts a hand on his shoulder to steady himself and then pats him on the back once as Mickey steps further into the living room.

He doesn’t really take much of what’s happening in as he stumbles over to Ian. Vee’s at the end of the couch, Debbie’s skirt pulled up so she can see…. whatever it is she’s looking at down there. Mickey is quite happy _not_ knowing, thanks.

“No shit, this baby is _coming_.”

“Now?” The guy Mickey _thinks_ is Sean says.

And now that they’re here, and Mickey’s focussing on him so he doesn’t have to watch Ian’s little sister give birth, maybe he _does_ recognise him. The shit that went down around when Sammi ratted Ian out to the MPs is sorta a blur; faces, names, dates, places all kinda swirl around in his head in a way that makes it impossible to focus on anything in particular. But now that he’s here staring at the guy in a well-lit room, things are starting to come back to him.

“She’s crowning.”

Ian tenses beside him and Mickey reaches out, almost unconsciously, to rub his hand down Ian’s back. Ian shifts closer, grabs onto Mickey’s hand so he can slot their fingers together, and squeezes so hard Mickey’s knuckles crack. He doesn’t even seem to realise he’s doing it, but after a couple seconds, Mickey nudges him with his elbow.

“You wanna deal with broken fingers as well as a baby?”

Ian jolts, glances down at where their hands are joined, and flushes. He tries to let go, to pull his hand back, but Mickey doesn’t let him. He doesn’t _want_ to. Instead he smiles a little and shakes his head.

Shoulders relaxing, Ian matches his smile. “Sorry.”

“The fuck are _you_ doing?” Lip asks, and for a brief second Mickey thinks he’s talking to _them_.

But when he looks up, lets himself be drawn away from Ian, he sees the last fucking person he expected to be here. Mickey hasn’t seen Svetlana since she gave him that ride home from prison, and the sight of her now makes him freeze for a moment. Just a beat. Then the air rushes out of his lungs and everything fits back into place. Of course, she’s here; tonight was meant to be Fiona’s bachelorette party, or some shit. Mickey might not have _seen_ her, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t hear things.

“I capture moment.”

She has a phone held up in her hands, and Mickey _really_ doesn’t understand why someone would want to relive this. Surely the first time is bad enough.

“Who delivered Liam?” Fiona cuts in.

“M-Monica.” Lip says, and Mickey knows him well enough to hear the tremor of fear in his voice. “But she was high, he slid right out.”

Fiona points at the front door. “Go get Sylvia from down the block. She’s a nurse.”

“No good, she’s at Cook County.” Kev laughs, running his hands over his head.

Fiona frowns. “I thought she worked at Rush.”

“No,” Vee says, lowering Debbie’s skirt a little so she can look at Fiona, “Cook County Department of Corrections. She shot her husband.”

Fiona visibly flounders for a second. “You worked at a nursing home.”

“Changing bed pans, I never delivered a damn baby!”

“Ian,” Mickey says quietly, “you should help.”

Ian’s been staring down at Debbie in terrified awe for the last couple minutes, but at this he seems to snap out of it. He nods jerkily, letting go of Mickey’s hand so he can round the couch and stand at Fiona’s shoulder.

“Call an ambulance.” He says to Kev, then he turns to Fiona. “Gotta get her on something flat.”

“Kitchen table?”

He shakes his head. “Too high. Baby’s gonna be super slippery, don’t wanna drop ‘em by accident.”

“The floor, then.” Lip says. At Ian’s nod, he grabs Mickey by the shoulder. “What do we need?”

“Clean sheets and a couple pillows.”

“Alright.” Lip glances at Mickey. “Help me get ‘em?”

Glad for something to do, Mickey nods and follows Lip up the stairs. He stands patiently while Lip digs through the linen closet, arms outstretched as Lip hauls some old, worn sheets into them. They don’t say anything as they work, and the quiet is a nice change from the amount of groaning he can hear coming from downstairs.

Lip grabs an armful of pillows from various beds and takes a deep breath.

“Ready to be an uncle, huh?”

He lets out a shaky laugh. “Fuck no.”

They smile at each other, before Lip brushes past him and back down the stairs. Mickey hurries after him.

Ian’s stroking a hand over Debbie’s forehead, the other hand being squeezed between her fingers. “You’re doing great, Debs.”

“Where d’you want this shit?” Mickey asks, holding the sheets up.

“Help me move the table.” Fiona says to Vee.

Between them they manage to heave the table far enough out of the way that Mickey and Sean can spread the sheets out over the floor.

“Debs, you gotta move now, okay?” Fiona says, running a hand over her hair. “Just a little.”

Debbie nods, but starts groaning again the second they start moving. Ian stays by her side the entire time, and it really shouldn’t be doing the things it’s doing for Mickey. It _really_ shouldn’t. But seeing Ian _confident_? Watching him shine because he _knows what he’s doing_? Mickey’s really fucking into it, so sue him.

When Debbie’s on the floor, Ian motions at Lip. “Get at least one of those under her hips and put one under her head.”

He stands up as Lip hurries to do as instructed.

“Where’re you going?” Fiona asks, voice almost desperate.

“Gotta wash my hands.”

Things start moving pretty fucking fast after that. The second Ian tells her it’s time to start pushing, Mickey is off the step he’s sitting on and out the back door. He’s got no fucking interest in actually watching the sixteen year old kid he kinda, sorta, maybe thinks of as a little sister give birth. His chest heaves as he lowers himself down onto the top step of the back porch. He runs a shaking hand through his hair and fishes his pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket.

The door opens behind him, and he knows who it is from the smell of her perfume. Svetlana gently settles herself next to him, her thigh warm against his and he doesn’t understand _how_ because it’s fucking _cold_ and she doesn’t even have a coat on. He offers her the box, and she takes a cigarette with a quiet word of thanks.

They sit in silence for a few moments as she lights up. Svetlana leans on him a little, and he welcomes the weight of her. There was a time where he would’ve shrugged her off, stormed down those stairs and hidden away for a couple of hours. But now? He doesn’t hate it.

“Glad to know is not just _your_ baby you do not like.”

Mickey huffs out a tired laugh as he accepts the cigarette, but he doesn’t answer her. He doesn’t know _how_. Has no fucking clue how to explain that every time he looks at Yevgeny it’s just a reminder of what happened to him. That he’s never really blamed the kid because it’s not his fault. Hell, it’s not _Svetlana’s,_ either. He’d had a lot of fucking time to just… _think_ when he was locked up. Worked through some shit. Come to some realisations.

“I am not one for regret.” Svetlana says quietly, drawing him out of his thoughts. “But if I were, then I would apologise for the way I treated you when we were married.”

Mickey tenses. Then forces himself to relax. Svetlana shifts against him, and motions for the cigarette. She doesn’t say anything else for a moment or two, and she glances up at the sky as she lets the smoke out.

“When we got married,” she snorts softly as she says it, “I hoped we could be happy. Start new life away from what I had always known. Away from fathers. Away from being whore.”

Mickey clears his throat. “Sorry, I couldn’t give you that.”

Svetlana waves him off. “Not your fault. Is hard to tell who is bigger piece of shit. Your father or mine.”

He hears what she’s _not_ saying, hears the way her voice shakes a little. She’d been just as fucking terrified as he had, had taken her fear out on him just like he’d taken his out on her. Mickey squeezes his eyes shut and breathes through his nose.

“Yevgeny is blessing for me. He has made me realise many things. What it means to be a mother, what it means to love your child, what it means to put someone’s life before your own. Our fathers do not love their children. This I know now.”

Mickey blinks rapidly, rubs at his eyes with his free hand. Svetlana stubs the cigarette out on the handrail and throws the butt into the snow piled at the bottom of the stairs. Neither of them moves, though. They both sit there in the silence for a few more minutes.

“If I _were_ one for regret, I would apologise for not seeing that Yevgeny is curse for you. Is not his fault, but is not yours either.”

Mickey swallows thickly. “Are you happy? Now, I mean?”

Svetlana tucks her head against his shoulder and nods. “Yes. I think… I am in love. It is new for me.”

That’s fucking _news_ to Mickey. “Anyone I know?”

“Why?” She sounds amused. “Will you threaten them to defend my honour?”

He laughs, and if it’s a little watery around the edges then neither of them mentions it. “Gotta stake out the competition, y’know?”

“They do not know. I am not sure I _want_ them to.” She shakes her head, her hair tickling Mickey’s cheek as she sniffs. “Enough of me. Are _you_ happy?”

Mickey thinks about it for a while. Runs through everything that’s happened to him in the last two months, where he was and where he is now. “Yeah. Think I’m gettin’ there.”

“Good.”

The backdoor opens again and they turn in tandem to see Ian poking his head through the gap. He smiles a little when he sees them.

“There you guys are. You missed it.”

“Baby is okay?”

Ian ducks his head and grins. “Yeah. It’s a girl. Uh, Franny.”

Svetlana gets to her feet with a laugh. She offers Mickey a hand up, but he shakes his head and pulls out his pack of cigarettes again. She shrugs and goes inside, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

“You okay?” Mickey asks as Ian drops down beside him.

Ian breathes out a shaky breath, but nods. “Yeah, I think so.”

“You did good.” Mickey studies the cigarette between his fingers.

Ian’s laugh is quiet and all kinds of overwhelmed. “How do you know? You weren’t in there.”

Mickey knocks their knees together and sniffs. “Didn’t need to be. You’re you. I’m really fuckin’ proud of you, you know that?”

“I… Thanks, Mick.” Ian bumps his shoulder against Mickey’s, and it takes everything Mickey has not to reach out and grab his hand again. “I wouldn’t be here without you, y’know?”

“Shut the fuck up, yes you would. You woulda figured your shit out without me.”

Ian shakes his head. “Nah. You just… you make everything. Easier? I guess. Less fucked up in my head.”

Mickey doesn’t know what to say to that. He swallows around a dry throat and lets himself lean against Ian a little as they stare up at the sky. It’s hard to make out the stars in the middle of the city, the way they are, but that doesn’t stop either of them from looking.

“I need to tell you something.” Ian says after a little while.

Mickey’s instantly on high alert, although he does his best to stay relaxed against Ian’s shoulder. “Oh, yeah? Finally gonna admit you’re part alien, huh?”

“Fuck off.” Ian laugh is short, before he grows quiet again. “About Caleb.”

“ _He’s_ part alien?”

“ _Mickey_.” Ian says, a mix of amused and long suffering that has Mickey smiling. “Would you shut the fuck and let me talk?”

He holds up the hand not pinned against Ian’s side. “I’m not stopping you.”

“I think I’m gonna dump him.” Ian admits, voice so fucking soft it’s barely above a whisper.

Mickey turns his head to study Ian’s face, and his heart feels like it’s in his fucking _throat_. “Why?”

Ian slowly looks at him, and Mickey doesn’t miss the way he glances at his mouth before he meets Mickey’s eye. “You know why.”

Whatever air is in Mickey’s lungs rushes out and he squeezes his eyes shut. One of Ian’s hands dances down his forearm, long fingers wrapping around his. His other hand lands featherlight on Mickey’s cheek, thumb brushing across his cheekbone.

Mickey forces his eyes open, goes slightly cross-eyed at how close he suddenly is.

“This okay?”

Mickey nods frantically, the hand Ian isn’t holding sliding up his back so he can grip the back of Ian’s neck and tug him closer.

 _Yes_. More than okay. Yesyesyesyes.

Ian’s breath is warm against his cheeks as he leans in, and Mickey watches his eyes slide shut. Their noses bump, and Mickey lets his own eyes close again. Feels Ian’s fingers tighten around his own.

Which is obviously when the backdoor bangs open again. They spring apart, and Mickey glares up at a highly amused Lip, who looks like he’s barely keeping a grin at bay.

“Sorry.” He says, sounding anything fucking but. “Paramedics are here.”

Ian runs a hand through his hair and gets to his feet. Mickey takes the hand that’s offered to him, but lets go when they’re both standing up. Obviously embarrassed, Ian’s the first through the door, leaving Lip and Mickey standing on the porch for a couple seconds.

Lip doesn’t say anything, just raises his eyebrows and cracks a smile when Mickey flips him off.

Mickey _really_ needs new friends.

*

They don’t talk about what happened. Or _didn’t_ happen, as Mickey’s brain like to remind him.

It’s not for lack of trying. It’s not because either of them are ignoring it, either.

Brad gets a huge order in that takes up all of Mickey’s time and has him working extra hours like no one’s fucking business. Every night, when he gets home, he barely has the energy to eat or shower before he’s crawling into bed to start the cycle all over again in the morning. It’s okay. He likes the work, feels like he’s doing something productive after a lifetime of following Terry’s orders. Plus, he’s learning a lot as he goes, and Brad’s more than hinted he’ll be able to start working on shit on his own soon.

The couple times he and Ian are at home at the same time for longer than five minutes aren’t any fucking use either. Ian’s so caught up in all the paperwork he’s gotta fill out that he barely even notices when Mickey’s around half the time.

Mickey doesn’t blame him for it. Not really. He can’t. This shit is _important_ , and whatever the fuck is going on between them right now has to take a backseat, so Ian doesn’t fuck it up. Ian _needs_ this, Mickey won’t be the reason he doesn’t get it.

He’ll wait.

Because it’s different now. Ian _wants_ him. Ian _chooses_ him, and the thought of it makes Mickey so fucking lightheaded sometimes he genuinely has to sit down. Sure, Ian hasn’t exactly _said_ it. But Mickey doesn’t need him to. The words would be _nice_ , yeah, and one day soon he’s gonna fucking ask for them. For now, though, he can wait.

Doesn’t mean he’s not frustrated as all hell, though. If he jerks off every fucking morning before crawling outta bed to start his day, then it’s no one’s goddamn business but his and his right hand’s.

By the time Ian’s first shift rolls around, Mickey kinda feels like he’s going insane. Just a little.

 _Especially_ when Ian walks outta his room wearing his uniform.

Mickey’s at the kitchen table, a half-eaten bowl of Fruit Loops in front of him and a lukewarm cup of coffee at his elbow, when he catches sight of him. Mickey damn near swallows his own tongue, and scrambles to pick up his coffee. He hides behind it, hoping against fucking hope that Ian doesn’t notice how red his face has _gotta_ be.

Apparently, the universe has decided to be kind to him today, because Ian’s too busy fiddling with his shirt cuffs to look at him. He comes to a stop on the other side of the table and glances up at Mickey, brow furrowed.

“I look okay?”

 _Yes_. More than okay. Jesus _Christ_ , Mickey is so fucked.

Mickey scoffs before he can stop himself, and he doesn’t miss the way Ian’s mouth twitches. Fucker. He downs the rest of his coffee, grimacing at how cold it is, and pushes himself to his feet.

“You went all official on me, huh?” He asks slowly as he rounds the table.

Two can play at that game. Ian turns to him, visibly swallowing when Mickey gets right up in his face to fiddle with the collar of his shirt.

“Guess I did. Who woulda thought?”

Mickey leaves his fingers tangled in Ian’s collar, and after a moment, Ian’s hands come up to rest on his forearms. Neither of them moves, and Mickey refuses to meet his eye, because if he does, he’ll kiss him. And as much as he fucking _wants_ to, as hard as it is not to just lean up and do it – because Ian is _right fucking there,_ and it would be so easy – Ian can’t be late.

If he ends up staring at Ian’s mouth instead, then he personally thinks he can’t be blamed. He hears Ian’s breath hitch, feels him sway forwards, and steps back, hands sliding down to Ian’s chest to keep him at bay.

 _Fuck_ , but he wants this. So bad.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out in one short punch of air. Forces himself to meet Ian’s eye, and _fuck_ Ian shouldn’t be allowed to look at him like that.

“Don’t you got lives to save?”

Ian squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath, and his hands linger on Mickey’s forearms even has he takes another step back. After a couple seconds, he lets his arms fall and shoves his hands into his pockets.

“Wish me luck?”

Mickey smiles. “You’re gonna kick ass, Gallagher.”

Ian’s mouth curves into an embarrassed smile, and he ducks his head a little. Runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” He checks his watch and cusses quietly under his breath. “I gotta go.”

Mickey nods. Bites the inside of his bottom lip. Watches Ian track the movement and swallow again. “Get outta here.”

“Hey, uh. I’m gonna go see Debbie and the baby after work later, you wanna come?”

Not really. Mickey likes Debbie, or whatever, and he has nothing against the baby, but he’s heard enough to know tensions at the Gallagher house are fucking _high_ at the moment.

“Sure.” Is what he says, because he is a weak, _weak_ man who will take any fucking opportunity to spend time with Ian, apparently.

Ian’s smile is _beautiful_. “Then… I’ll see you later?”

“Oh my god, Gallagher, get the fuck outta here.”

Mickey spends the rest of the day in a daze. Like, he’s flying on autopilot while his mind races around one singular thought.

Something’s gotta happen. And soon. Them being on the edge of… whatever this is, and Mickey doesn’t wanna think about _that_ because he might just pass the fuck out, can’t keep going. Mickey feels like he’s about to fucking _explode_. All the goddamn time.

Ian’s waiting for him outside the Gallagher house that evening, and what little control he’s managed to wrestle together over the twelve hours since they last saw each other is very nearly blown straight outta the fucking water. The only saving grace is that Ian’s not wearing his uniform anymore. Doesn’t mean Mickey wants to kiss him any less, but at least he’s _used_ to this.

“How’d it go?” Mickey calls, hurrying down the sidewalk and almost slipping on a patch of ice.

He _doesn’t_ , but he can still hear Ian laughing at him. He flips him off as he rights himself.

“Good.” Ian says, shit eating grin _firmly_ in place as Mickey scowls at him.

“That all you got?” Mickey grumbles, but his mouth is twitching. “‘Good’?”

“It _was_.” Ian insists, leading the way up the path to the front door.

Mickey glares at his shoulder blades and shakes his head but follows him anyway. Because he’ll always follow. If he weren’t so fucking in love with the idiot, the truth of that statement would be a hell of a lot more embarrassing.

The second Ian opens the front door, it’s like they’re hit with a tidal wave of noise. The baby’s crying somewhere upstairs, and everyone else in the living room is talking over each other.

“Yo!” Ian calls as he opens the living room door.

They’re greeted by a chorus of cheers.

He drops his backpack on the floor behind the sofa as he reaches out to clap Lip’s hand. Mickey follows him in, closing the door behind them.

Lip keeps his hand held out for Mickey as Ian rounds the couch to give Fiona a hug. Mickey slaps it, hard enough to sting, and grins when Lip complains. Mickey shrugs his coat off and drops down on the couch next to him, motioning for him to hand over his cigarette.

There are several seconds of the regular brand of Gallagher chaos, where they all talk over each other but somehow seem to follow every conversation. Even Frank seems to be in a good mood, offering Ian the cigarette he’s smoking. Ian takes it with a frown but doesn’t say anything as he sticks it in his mouth.

“It’s gonna be a long night.” Lip says, mostly to Mickey as he takes his cigarette back. It’s barely more than the butt at this point and he leans forward to drop it in an overflowing ashtray on the coffee table.

“Another long night.” Sean says, coming out of the kitchen. He looks half asleep, stumbling over to stand at Fiona’s side.

“How was your first day at work?”

Mickey does _not_ miss the way Ian grins at him, all cocky and confident around the cigarette, and it should be fucking annoying. But it’s not. Mickey’s been waiting a _long_ time to see that particular smile again.

“A little hectic, but I did good.”

He sounds so fucking _pleased_ with himself. Like, he genuinely believes what he’s saying, and it kinda takes Mickey’s breath away. The Ian of two months ago, hell the Ian of two _weeks_ ago, would never stand here, in front of his family and tell them he did a good job at something.

Ian catches his eye and his grin settles into a pleased smile. Mickey’s powerless to stop himself from smiling back.

That smile almost drops away when Fiona asks when they’re gonna meet ‘the firefighter’, and the only thing that stops him from moving is the warm press of Lip’s knee against his thigh. Ian sends him a panicked look that would be funny if bile weren’t crawling its way up his goddamn throat.

Ian’s looking right at him when he says, “I dunno. Things aren’t really that serious, y’know?”

Mickey tries really hard not to react to that, because Lip _and_ Frank are watching him. But something must show on his face, because Lip scoffs and knocks their knees together.

Fiona looks like she wants to say something else, but the arrival of Debbie and her baby save Mickey from having to hear it. The fact Franny’s not screaming anymore is kind of a minor miracle and everyone jumps up at once to crowd around her.

Mickey’s never really understood the obsession with babies, himself. All they do is shit and cry and stop other people from sleeping. He should fucking _know_ , after all. But he sees the way Ian lights up when Debbie places her daughter in his arms, hears how soft his voice gets when he talks to her, how fucking _gentle_ he is and how goddamn small the baby looks, and thinks maybe one day he wouldn’t hate having that with Ian.

Just for a second.

Then it’s gone again because the baby starts crying, and he’s reminded of all the reasons new-borns _suck_.

Mickey hasn’t moved from his spot on the couch, so he sees the way Fiona backs away, the hurt look on her face as Sean leads her towards the stairs. She catches sight of him as they go, and the smile she offers him is _sad_.

Sean puts a hand on her back. “Let’s head up. Come on.”

After Debbie’s taken the baby back upstairs, and Ian’s busy bullying Carl over something, he and Lip end up sitting outside on the back porch with a can of beer and a joint between them. Neither of them really says very much, which is fine with Mickey because it means he’s not being interrogated about Ian.

 _When_ Lip became the person he goes to for relationship advice – if the shit Lip pulls outta his ass can even be _called_ advice – Mickey doesn’t know. But he isn’t sure he likes it. It feels… too close, sometimes. Like, his relationship with Ian is under a fucking microscope and Lip’s the kid using it to burn shit.

It _is_ kinda nice, though. Just to be able to sit. Lip’s usually unable to stop moving around, jumping from one thing to the next and being real fucking annoying about it, but for once he’s pretty calm. Mickey doesn’t know if it’s the weed, or something else he doesn’t wanna talk about yet, but he’s not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth. Something warm settles in his belly when he thinks about it – it’s not an _if_ Lip wants to talk about it, it’s a _when_. Because Mickey _knows_ , as sure as he knows his own goddamn name, that Lip _will_ tell him what’s going on eventually. He knows it. The thought makes him a little giddy.

When the fuck did he become such a fucking bitch for the entire Gallagher family? Jesus _Christ_.

They both startle when the back door opens, and they turn to see Fiona stepping outside, pulling her coat on. She freezes when she sees them, before smiling slightly.

“Oh,” she says, curling her arms across her chest and shoving her hands up under armpits, “hey. Didn’t realise you guys were out here.”

Lip holds the joint over his head so she can take it. “Came out here for some peace and quiet, y’know?”

“That a hint?” She laughs around the cigarette.

Mickey smiles down at his feet. He jumps slightly when Lip leans on him but relaxes again pretty quickly. He’s still getting used to this whole… casual touching thing. It’s not something he’s ever had before. With his dad- with _Terry_ – touch was always mean to hurt; it was a _punishment_. For what, it didn’t matter. Terry Milkovich decides you deserve to be punished for something, and that’s it. That’s all anyone needs to know.

It’s different, with the Gallaghers. It always has been. Mickey remembers this house being the only real place he ever felt _safe_. Wanted. Here, they’re not afraid of showing how much they care about each other, how much they want to _be_ together, how much they seem to actually like hanging out together.

“Franny still crying?”

Fiona shuffles over to the railing and leans against it, staring out at the backyard. “Yeah. Debs is being stubborn, won’t listen to anything _I’ve_ gotta say. Startin’ to think she’s doing it just to spite me.”

“You _did_ tell her you were gonna kick her out.” Lip reminds her, taking the joint back. “I wouldn’t want your help either, if it were me.”

He gets to his feet, brushing his pants off as he jogs to the bottom of the stairs. What’s left of the joint is thrown into a snow pile and he squints up at Fiona.

“Maybe you should quit _telling_ her what to do all the time, and just offer to help instead.”

Fiona starts to make noises of protest, but Mickey manages to speak first.

“The fuck’re you going?”

“I got some shit to do, for one’a my professors.” He starts backing away and lifts a hand. “See you later.”

Fiona sighs when he’s gone, glancing over at where Mickey’s still sitting on the top step awkwardly.

“Sorry you gotta get dragged into this.”

Mickey shrugs, shifting on the step so he’s leaning against the railing and looking up at her.

“So, you and Ian, huh?” She asks, smiling a little when he groans. “You guys back together?”

He doesn’t say anything straight away, and for a couple seconds they just study each other. “I got no idea.”

She nods, shrugging further into her coat. “Well, even if you’re not, I, uh. Wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. You can totally say no, but I was gonna ask if you would.” She pauses and blows out a huge puff of air. “Come to my wedding?”

Mickey frowns. “You _want_ me to?”

Fiona laughs a little. “‘Course I do.” She sighs and fiddles with the bottom of her coat. “Look, Mickey, I don’t really… have a whole lotta friends. And I’d. I’d like to think we are?”

Sure. Why the fuck not? He’s already collecting Gallaghers like they’re fucking Pokémon, why not one more?

He shrugs again. “I guess. Alright, sure. I’ll come. Why the fuck not, right?”

“Great! I’ll get Ian to give you the details?” She’s already pushing away from the railing and back over to the door.

If there’s one thing Mickey’s learnt about Fiona over the years it’s that she _has_ to be in constant motion. She’s always moving towards something, some new goal, or task. Just watching her makes him tired.

“Goodnight, Mickey.” She says as she opens the door.

“Night.”

Mickey doesn’t see much of Ian for the next couple days. He’s on the later shift, so Mickey’s always gone by the time he gets up in the morning and is _usually_ in bed by the time he gets home.

Tonight, though, is different. It’s his day off tomorrow and seeing as he’s a grown fucking man who can make his own decisions, he’s at the kitchen table eating a bowl of cereal. He’s almost finished with it when he hears a key in the lock, and Ian comes stomping through the front door.

Mickey can sense something’s off straight away. “What’s up with you?”

“I got fired.”

Mickey pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth. He doesn’t even notice the milk splashing onto his hand straight away. “What?”

Ian looks like he’s ready for a fight, all bristling anger and stubborn jaw. “They found out. That I lied. So, they _fired_ me. Couldn’t even make it a fucking week.”

Slowly pushing away from the table, Mickey wipes his hand on his thigh – his sweatpants need to get washed soon anyway – and walks towards Ian. His heart breaks at the way Ian’s looking at him. Like, he’d known it was all too good to be true, like he’d _known_ it was all gonna go wrong for him.

Anger coils in his belly, hot and rancid, because how fucking _dare_ they? How _dare_ they take the one thing Ian’s truly fought for since his diagnosis away from him _because_ of it? He’s got half a fucking mind to go down there and rip them a new asshole over it, but it’s not what Ian needs from him right now.

“That’s not your fault, Ian.” He says quietly. “That’s on _them_. If they can’t see how fuckin’ _good_ you are at this job, then they don’t deserve you.”

Ian’s eyes close, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath as Mickey approaches him. When he’s close enough, he gently pulls Ian into a hug, wrapping his arms around Ian’s shoulders and carding a hand into the hair at his nape. He feels Ian’s hands come to a hesitant rest against the small of his back, and guides Ian’s face into the crook of his shoulder.

“I shoulda fucking known I’m nothing better than a janitor.” Ian mumbles into his shoulder, and Mickey raps his knuckles against his skull.

“That’s fuckin’ _bullshit_ , man, and you know it. You’re _good_ at this. And you’ve worked too fuckin’ hard to let it go that easy.”

“But, Mick, I–.”

“No.” Mickey says, shaking his head and knocking their temples together. “You kicked _ass_ on that exam. They got _no reason_ to fire you. Outside of somethin’ that you _can’t help_.”

Ian’s shaking against him, but Mickey doesn’t think it’s because he’s actually crying. At least, it doesn’t _feel_ like Ian’s crying. He rubs the hand that isn’t in Ian’s hair across his back.

“What d’you think I should do?”

He snorts softly. “I don’t fuckin’ know. Fight for it. You ain’t ever backed away from one of those before.”

“Hey, fuck you.” The shaking turns into laughter, and Ian pulls away to try and frown down at him.

It doesn’t really work, though, and they end up just smiling at each other. Mickey’s got no fucking idea how long they just stand there staring at each other in a tangle of arms. But he knows the second it shifts, the _second_ Ian realises, because he feels something in the air change.

And then Ian ducks down and kisses him.

Yes. Yesyesyes, thank you _God_.

Jesus _Christ,_ but kissing Ian Gallagher feels like coming home.

Their noses bump a little at first, each of them shifting to get closer. For a couple seconds it’s nothing more than the gentle press of lips on lips. It’s chaste, almost. And then Ian’s mouth parts, and suddenly it’s not so chaste anymore. Mickey brushes the tip of his tongue against Ian’s bottom lip, almost like a dare, and groans low in his throat when Ian immediately takes him up on it. At the first brush of tongue, Mickey’s toes curl against the hardwood floor. He pulls Ian closer, feels his eyelashes against his cheek.

God, but he has _missed_ this.

Mickey’s not embarrassed at the way he chases after Ian’s mouth when he moves slightly too far away, although he _does_ give Ian’s hair a sharp tug when he feels him laugh. Ian leans back in, sucks Mickey’s bottom lip into his mouth in that way of his that he _knows_ drives Mickey fucking nuts. In retaliation, Mickey curls his tongue against the roof of Ian’s mouth, just behind his teeth, and gives a contented hum when Ian’s breath hitches.

Ian’s hands slide from the small of his back to his hips, and Mickey lets out a startled laugh when he’s pushed towards the kitchen table. His lets his hands wander down across Ian’s chest so he can start pulling at where his shirt is tucked into his work pants.

Ian stills when Mickey’s fingers brush against his stomach and pulls back again. He’s flushed, the look in his eye promising all kinds of trouble, but when Mickey reaches for him again, he shakes his head.

“Fuck,” he breathes, chest heaving against Mickey’s, “ _fuck_.”

Mickey watches him squeeze his eyes shut, sees the way his neck strains as he swallows.

“I can’t do this.”

Everything in him goes _cold_.

No.

Not again.

Nononono.

It’s different, this time, right? It _has_ to be different this time, Mickey _can’t_ go through this again.

His hands slide away from Ian’s waist and he takes a step back, hip bumping painfully into the corner of the table. Ian frowns at him, before his eyes widen in understanding.

“No! Mickey, _no_.” His hands reach out, like he wants to touch Mickey again but isn’t sure whether he’s allowed to. “That’s not what I meant.”

Mickey stops moving, swallows around the lump in his throat, and raises an eyebrow. “Then what the fuck _did_ you mean, Gallagher?”

Ian takes a tentative step toward him, but his hands drop down to his sides again. His breath comes out in a rush. “I haven’t dumped Caleb yet.”

Mickey frowns, because that was the last thing on his fucking mind. “What?”

“Technically we’re still dating.” Ian shrugs, shoulders stiff. “I can’t– I don’t wanna be that person anymore. The one who. The one who cheats.”

Mickey’s eyes sting and he bites his bottom lip. Fuck, but he hates thinking about it. “I never blamed you–.”

“I know.” Ian is quick to assure him, and Mickey doesn’t know if it’s because of how fucking watery his eyes are or if Ian really is just as close to tears as he is. “I know you didn’t. And I know. I know that it wasn’t… my fault. My choice. But I still fucking _did_ it. _I_ did it.”

There’s nothing Mickey can say to that. Not without lying to either himself or Ian. Because Ian’s right – it _wasn’t_ his fault. He hadn’t known what he was doing was _wrong_. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like a motherfucker. He takes a step towards Ian and gently lays a hand on his cheek, forcing Ian to meet his eye.

“What’re you sayin’?”

Ian takes a shuddering breath. “I don’t. I don’t give _shit_ about Caleb. To be honest, I never really have. I thought that maybe… maybe he could be good. For me. Help me. Move on, or whatever.”

Mickey nods slowly. Gives Ian a long look up and down. “Take it that didn’t work?”

“No, kinda just made me realise how much I miss you.” Ian’s laugh is wet. Choked. “I _love_ you. I really fucking do. And I’m sorry, for being such an idiot about it.”

Mickey smiles, because of course he does. How can he _not_? It’s the one thing he’s been wanting to hear come outta Ian’s mouth for fucking _years_. “Then what’s the problem?”

He won’t say it back, not yet. Oh, he _wants_ to. More than anything. But he still remembers what happened last time. So, he bites his tongue. Holds it down.

“I can’t be that guy. I don’t care about Caleb, but I care… I care about me.” He hangs his head and takes a deep breath. “When I… cheated. On you. I didn’t have a choice – right and wrong didn’t mean much, anymore. Right? But. I do, now. I have a choice. And I don’t wanna be the guy who _chooses_ to cheat.”

What _is_ there Mickey can say to that? Nothing. Mickey’s not big enough to act like he cares about Ian cheating on Caleb, because the truth is, he’s not. But Ian does. And Mickey’s not gonna argue with that because it’s clearly fucking important to him.

Mickey _knows_ how much Ian hates himself for the shit he did. Ian rarely talks about it, rarely lets himself even _think_ about what happened. But Mickey knows, because he knows _Ian_. Knows how he ticks, how his brain works. If Ian’s openly telling him he doesn’t wanna go back to that then Mickey’s not gonna fucking _ask_ him to.

Even if he wants nothing more than for Ian to pin him to the kitchen table and fuck him until he can barely remember his own name.

So, he lets Ian go. _With_ a smile, as weak as it may be, because this is _important_.

“Okay.” He watches Ian take a few steps back and run a hand through his hair before he heads back over to the front door. “Wait, you’re _leaving_?”

“If I stay here tonight, everything I just said is gonna go right out the fucking window.” Ian says, and there’s a tiny, sad, smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Mickey smiles too and thumbs at his bottom lip. “That’s _some_ self-control you got.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

Ian laughs when Mickey flips him off.

“Hey, promise me somethin’.” Mickey calls after him, fingers of his other hand tight around the back of the chair to keep his balance.

Ian pauses, coat in hand.

“Promise you’re coming back.”

Ian drops his coat and is across the room in seconds. He wraps his stupidly long arms around Mickey’s shoulders and rests his chin on the top of Mickey’s head. Mickey lets himself slide his arms around Ian’s waist, let’s himself breathe in the smell of Ian’s shower gel. Squeezes his eyes shut when Ian speaks again.

“I’m coming back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooooookay, glad that's over with. hello.
> 
> did you have fun? i hope you did. i really fucking hate writing kisses, so i hope that one wasn't absolutely terrible, but if it was then i'll just have to live with it <3
> 
> okay the one thing i'm gonna justify my decision on is ian actively choosing not to cheat on caleb. obviously, i know that in the show ian has no second thoughts about cheating on trevor when mickey shows back up. but i think that's because mickey shows up outta nowhere and all of ian's feelings for him are suddenly thrust back to the surface - that's not the case here; ian's had a long time to get used to mickey being back, he's had time to _think_ about it. and i think at this point in time ian's still actively trying to distance himself from the shit he did while manic. so _choosing_ to cheat? definitely not.
> 
> anyway hit me up on my socials: [tumblr](http://floristmick.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/floristmick)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i said it wouldn’t take me long to get this chapter up, but as will done day be realised, i am nothing if not a liar. but! we’re here now!! i am, as per usual, convinced this chapter is awful. we love a brain with healthy combination of anxiety and imposter syndrome <3 it does wonders for my self esteem!
> 
> anyway, a huge thank you, once again, to my pals [willa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oforamuse/pseuds/oforamuse/works), [michelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/statichearts/pseuds/statichearts/works), and [taylor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boneached/pseuds/boneached/works)! genuinely would not have got this thing finished without you all, so!!! thanks!!! i love you!!!!!!!!!

Mickey wakes up to his phone buzzing against an old beer can on the bedside table. After the whole… _thing_ with Ian last night, he hadn’t slept particularly well, and when he catches sight of the time he swears under his breath.

Nine a.m.

On his day off.

Someone better be fucking _dying_.

He fumbles for his phone – to make it stop vibrating, if nothing else – and frowns when he sees that the caller ID reads ‘Unknown’. The ringing doesn’t stop, though, so he sighs and sits up.

“Hello?” He asks, voice gravelly as he drags a hand over his face. “Who the fuck is this?”

“Mickey? That you?” Lip’s voice echoes slightly through the receiver. “Thank _Christ_.”

“Lip?” Lip is the _last_ person he expects to hear on the other end, and he’s instantly on high alert. Why the _fuck_ isn’t he using his own phone? “What’s wrong?”

Lip laughs a little, although it’s not happy. He sounds broken, and tired, in a way that Mickey _really_ doesn’t like. “I, uh. I don’t really have a lotta time, and Ian’s not answering his phone. Think you could do me a favour?”

“That’s not making me feel any better, man.”

Mickey hasn’t been truly scared in a while, but the bile suddenly climbing up his throat is familiar in ways he would rather not think about. He digs his thumb and pointer finger into the inner corners of his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Oh, yeah, I. Uh. Kinda got arrested, last night? I’m in lockup.”

Mickey’s spine _snaps_ straight. “Lip, what the _fuck_ is going on?”

“Did some shit I shouldn’t have, got busted. I’ll tell you later, but first, I really need that favour.”

He doesn’t even have to think about it. “Sure. Whatever you need, man.”

“I need to make bail.” Lip clears his throat. “They haven’t exactly told me what’ll happen if I _don’t_ , but it’s not gonna be good, y’know?”

Mickey starts to protest, because as much as he might like Lip – and he does, a _lot_ , more than almost anyone – there’s no fucking _way_ he has that kinda money just laying around.

Lip cuts him off. “I’m not asking _you_ to bail me out. But could you talk to Youens? He’s the only chance I got, man.”

Not exactly what Mickey had planned on doing with his morning off. But this is probably better than sitting around moping over Ian until his meeting with Seaver this afternoon, anyway.

“Thought you and Youens had that massive blowout?” He asks, pushing himself to his feet.

His bedroom floor is a complete mess, and there’s a part of him that knows he should clean up at some point, but it would be so much easier to just… not. For now, he hunts around for a clean-ish pair of jeans.

“Yeah, we did. I got no idea if he’s even gonna help, but there’s no one else that _could_.”

Mickey makes a victorious noise when he finds a pair of pants and tucks his phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he pulls them on.

“You know where he is?”

The address Lip rattles off is almost the same as his old dorm room, and Mickey sighs through his nose as he starts fishing for a clean t-shirt.

“He virtually lives in his office. If he’s not there, he’ll be sleeping off last night’s hangover in his car in the parking lot.”

Mickey finds a shirt that isn’t completely covered in stains and shit, sniffs it, and shrugs. Good enough. He’ll find something better for Seaver when he gets home. He pulls it on, careful not to get his arms caught as he jostles his phone around. An almost finished can of deodorant sits on his dresser and he grabs it. It’s not his favourite, but at least it covers up fact he hasn’t showered yet.

“Okay. I’ll go look for this asshole.”

“Thanks, Mick. I woulda asked Ian, but he’s not picking up. And with the wedding tomorrow, I don’t want Fiona worrying anymore than she already is, y’know?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

There’s a noise on the other end and Lip sighs. “Times up, so I gotta go. But I’ll owe you for this.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Mickey sniffs. “No, you won’t.”

He’s antsy the whole way to Youens’ office, fingers tapping incessantly against his thighs to the point his fingertips start going a little numb.

It’s not that he’s scared of this guy – he knows first fucking hand what men like Youens think of him, it’s not _new_ – it’s being _here_ , on a college campus, that puts him on edge. Ian had once told him he was smart enough to go to community college. The confidence he’d said it with had been one hell of an ego boost, too. And, okay, if Mickey lets himself _really_ think about it, then it might even be true. But community college and this place are two _very_ different things.

There’s so much… _wealth_ here, and it’s sorta insane to Mickey that it’s played off like it’s normal. Like, there’s nothing wrong with an institution built on the backs of young, impressionable kids who were told from an early age that they’d never get anywhere without burying themselves in debt first.

By the time he reaches Youens’ door, he’s about ready to crawl out of his own fucking skin. He knocks twice, two short bursts, before he wipes his hand under his nose and pushes the door open.

He’s not exactly sure what he was expecting of Youens, but somehow the man sitting behind the desk and staring blankly at his computer screen _fits_. He just… looks like a college professor.

Youens glances up at the sound of the door and frowns at him over the top of his glasses. “Who the hell are you?”

“Mickey.” He says, kicking the door shut with his heel. “I’m, uh. A friend. Of Lip’s.”

Youens scoffs. “He’s sending people to do his dirty work now? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call campus security.”

Mickey’s shoulders tense and he reaches up to rub at the back of his neck. “Well, he woulda come himself, but seein’ as he’s in lockup right now, that’d be kinda hard, y’know?”

Youens’ frown disappears, and his mouth drops open. He works it a couple times, like he’s trying to speak, but nothing’s coming out.

“He needs your help, man.”

“ _My_ help?” Youens laughs. “Why would I help him? He smashed up my car.”

It’s Mickey’s turn to laugh, and it is _nasty_ , because _fuck_ this guy. “You’re lucky that’s all he did. Where I’m from, you’d be _dead_ for the shit you pulled.”

“The shit I pulled?” Youens asks disbelievingly, although Mickey’s pleased to see he’s paled slightly. “What shit was that, _Mickey_? My job?”

“It your job to make kids trust you, think of you as a _friend_ , and then fuck ‘em over instead of helping? ‘Cause that’s what you did to Lip.”

“I fired him for gross misconduct.”

“Nah, you fired him ‘cause he got pissed you ripped him off. That shit’s real serious where we’re from.” Mickey takes a few steps further into the room and sighs. “Look, I’m not asking you to take him back.”

Youens snorts. “I should hope not. So, what _do_ you want from me?”

“Bail him out.” When Youens laughs again, Mickey shakes his head. “Take it from someone who’s been there: Lip won’t survive prison. Asshole don’t know how to keep his fuckin’ mouth shut; he’ll get himself killed real fast.”

Youens sighs and takes his glasses off as he leans back in his chair. “Look, I feel for the guy, but–.”

“Guys like Lip Gallagher ain’t supposed to get stuck in the ghetto.” Mickey interrupts, wrapping his hands over the back of the chair on the other side of the desk. “Guys like Lip are supposed to be fuckin’… billionaires, or some shit. If he goes to prison over this, he’ll be stuck in the ghetto for the rest of his _life_ , and you know it.”

“How is that _my_ problem?”

“It’s not.” Mickey scratches at his temple and tries really hard not to scowl at the asshole. “But if it were the other way ‘round, and _you_ needed help? He’d run himself into the fuckin’ _ground_ for you, man.”

They stare at each other in silence for at least a minute. Mickey’s chest heaves from how fucking _annoyed_ he is by this guy. No wonder Ian hated him when they met.

Eventually Youens sighs again. “If I agree to bail him out, I’ve got a few conditions.”

Mickey gestures for him to continue.

“First: he gets help. He’s an addict with a serious problem. This continues and he’ll be lucky to his thirty. Second: the _second_ you step out of this office, I never want to see you again. Understood?”

“Perfectly.” Mickey says with a smile. “You gonna help him or do I gotta go rob a bank after this? I’ll do it, but it’d violate my probation, and I gotta see my P.O. later.”

“You really care about him, don’t you?” Youens asks, and there’s something about the way he’s looking at Mickey that he doesn’t like. Like, he thinks he _understands_.

Mickey shrugs, aiming for casual and probably failing. “I don’t hate him.”

Youens laughs again, and this time it sounds at least a little genuine. And with it, Mickey knows he’s won.

“Alright. I’ll bail him out.”

*

He’s still got a couple hours until his meeting with Seaver, so he heads for the nearest L station. He’s considering going to the store on his way home, picking up some groceries. As he reaches the platform, his phone buzzes. He fishes it from his coat pocket and pretends he’s not smiling when he sees who it’s from. That not-smile drops a little when he finally reads the message that’s just come through.

**9:47: no way you’re actually awake yet, but I’m gonna go job hunting today, so wish me fucking luck!**

**11:32: so, apparently, I’m not even good enough to be a janitor anymore**

Mickey throws the butt of his cigarette down onto the track and ignores the way an old woman tuts at him. With both hands now free, he starts typing out a reply.

_11:32: what the fuck? why were you even asking? when i told you to fight for your job this isn’t the one i fucking meant ian_

**11:33: I’m keeping my options open! nothing wrong with that, right?**

_11:33: you don’t need to keep your options open. you need to tell your boss she’s a bitch_

**11:34: great idea! that’ll definitely get me my job back**

Mickey’s smiling again when his train pulls in, and he has to put his phone away for a couple minutes. It’s almost empty inside the train car and he quickly finds a seat by the window. He puts his feet up on the seat to stop anyone from sitting next to him – it might be empty right now, but he’s not gonna take any fucking chances. It’s a long ride back to the South Side. His phone buzzes again.

**11:36: hey, you think if I asked real nice Brad would give me a job?**

_11:37: man shut the fuck up. you’d be a shit mechanic AND you’re bad at math_

_11:37: go get your REAL job back and stop trying to steal mine_

**11:38: fuck you, I’m not bad at math! I’m average**

**11:38: AND I’d be a great mechanic fuck you very much**

**11:38: I’m good with my hands**

Mickey snorts so loudly he draws the attention of the guy sat opposite him. He’s an older guy, in an expensive looking business suit, and there’s a Rolex hanging off his wrist. The way he raises his eyebrows can only be taken one way, and Mickey flips him off. He looks exactly like the kinda asshole Ian used to have panting over him a couple years ago, and the thought of _that_ has him looking back down at his phone. Ian can’t see him, obviously, but he props his chin in his hand to try and hide the smile anyway.

When he’s composed himself, he lowers his hand, glaring at the way the other guy is still staring at him. He shifts uncomfortably, and then focuses on answering Ian.

_11:40: would you quit being so fucking annoying and go get your job back??_

**11:40: you love my charming personality don’t fucking lie**

**11:40: but fine, I’m heading to the fairy tail right now!**

**11:41: that IS the job you meant, right?**

_11:41: ian i swear to fucking god_

Mickey knows Ian’s fucking with him. He _knows_ he is. But there’s a part of him that still goes ice fucking cold at the thought of it. As if that time of his life had been anything more than constant worry. About _everything_. Svetlana, the baby, his dad, Ian. Always Ian.

He chews on his thumbnail as he waits for Ian to respond, his knee jiggling the entire time. They pull into the next stop, and the guy who’s _still_ staring at him gets up and shuffles over to the door, waiting for it to hiss open. He glances over his shoulder as he steps out and fucking _winks_ at Mickey.

Mickey glares at his back until he’s gone from view. It’s not like it’s never happened to him before, he’s not fucking _blind_ , but it rattles him every time it does.

His phone buzzes, and he lets himself sink into the distraction that is Ian.

**11:42: but it’s my dream job!! you wouldn’t deny me that, would you?**

**11:42: I’m kidding, I’m not that fucking desperate**

**11:44: Mick? you know I’m joking, right?**

**11:45: Mickey!!!!!!!! answer me, asshole!**

_11:46: you’re so fucking easy gallagher_

**11:46: I take it back I don’t love you**

_11:46: liar_

*

When he finally gets out of his meeting with Seaver, he’s got three missed calls and two texts from Lip. His _actual_ phone, this time, and not some random unknown number. Mickey doesn’t bother reading the messages, just immediately hits the call button and lifts his phone up to his ear.

“Took your time.” Lip says in greeting.

There’s noise in the background, the gentle murmuring of someone talking close by, and Mickey gets distracted for a second trying to figure out where he is.

“I was _busy_ , asshole.” Mickey grumbles.

He leans back against the rough brick wall of Seaver’s office building and roots around in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes.

“You mean your life _doesn’t_ revolve around me?” Lip laughs a little. “Damn, Mick, and here I thought…”

Mickey’s lips twitch as he taps out a cigarette, and he doesn’t answer until after he’s lit up. “You okay?”

“Jesus, why d’you always think something’s wrong? Can I not just wanna talk to you?”

“Sorry for giving a shit.” Mickey says, taking a drag. He lets it out slowly and stares up the grey, overcast sky. “You tellin’ me there ain’t something wrong?”

Lip sighs. “There’s not. No more than usual, anyway. What’re _you_ doing that’s so important you can’t talk to me?”

“Had a meeting with my P.O.”

Lip makes an understanding noise. “How’d it go?”

It had been the same shit as every other time Mickey’s had one – he’s ‘on the right track’, and ‘Brad’s incredibly happy with your progress’, and ‘I’m proud of you, Mickey’.

Which is why Mickey scoffs and says, “Bad news. I’m going back to prison.”

“Damn. What they get you for this time?”

“Bank robbery.”

“Not quite as impressive as attempted murder, Mick.”

Mickey throws what’s left of his cigarette on the ground and stomps on it with the toe of his boot. “Can’t get too predictable, y’know? Anyway, where the fuck’re you?”

“ _The Alibi_.”

Mickey feels his heart sink. For fuck _sake_ , Lip. “You still gonna be there in like twenty minutes?”

“You gonna come babysit me?”

Yes.

“Hell no, I need a drink.”

Lip laughs again. “I’ll be here. Eagerly waiting for you.”

“Man, shut the fuck up.”

It takes him _thirty_ fucking minutes to get to _The Alibi_ , which is what his dumb ass gets for deciding to walk it. He pushes through the front door and pauses for a moment, just to let the warmth wash over him. It’s starting to get fucking _cold_ out and his fingers are feeling a little numb.

Mickey spots Lip almost immediately, sitting at the bar and nursing a pint of something between his hands. There’s something in him that wants to rush over, to snatch the glass out of Lip’s hands, and drag him home by the fucking _ear_.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t. Because Lip is the best friend he’s got, has _ever_ had, really. Because, for some fucking reason that he still doesn’t completely understand, he _cares_ about the asshole. Because he refuses to lose whatever _this_ is.

He’s lost enough things in his life. He’s not gonna let Lip Gallagher be one of them.

Even if it means biting back whatever he might wanna say right now.

Instead, he wanders over to the bar and nods in greeting at Svetlana. She smiles at him, a small little thing that feels like she means it, and raises her eyebrows at Lip’s bent head. Mickey nods again, this time in understanding.

Just the knowledge that someone else sees it, that someone else _knows_ , makes Mickey feel like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

He’s not alone.

He hasn’t been alone for a _long_ time. He finally gets that, now.

The barstool creaks as he slides onto it, and Lip lifts his head to squint at him. He’s not drunk, or at least, Mickey doesn’t _think_ he’s drunk. But, well, thinking about it, that’s kinda hard to tell with Lip.

“You’re late.”

“Traffic was a real bitch.” Mickey says, just to hear Lip laugh.

Svetlana wanders down the bar towards them and pauses, bright red nails drumming against the countertop as she looks down at Mickey expectantly.

“You want anything?”

Mickey considers it for a couple seconds, before naming one of the cheapest beers they have on tap. Svetlana nods, and he watches as she reaches for a glass and starts pouring him a pint.

He tuts as she places it in front of him and grins a little when she raises an eyebrow. “Thought you were s’posed to be good at giving head.”

Lip sputters around the mouthful of beer he’s just taken and lifts his free hand up to wipe at his chin.

Svetlana’s mouth twitches, just a _fraction_ , and Micky counts it as a win. She doesn’t bother answering him, which is okay, because he made her _smile_. He salutes her with his shitty beer as she walks away, back down towards Kermit and Tommy at the other end of the bar.

Lip sets his glass on the heavily stained beermat and scratches at his jaw. Mickey watches him from the corner of his eye, taking a sip of shitty beer and trying not to grimace. If he were here to actually enjoy himself, then maybe he would’ve asked for something better. But, well. He’s _not_. He’s here to talk Lip out of whatever stupid idea he’s got rattling around in his stupid, genius brain.

“You see Youens?”

Lip’s quiet for a couple seconds. “Yeah. He, uh. Told me. What you said. The conditions of my bail, or whatever.”

“You gonna listen to him?”

“Not like I got a lotta choice, right?”

Mickey shakes his head. “There’s always a choice, man. Even when it don’t feel like it.”

He knows _that_ better than anyone.

Lip studies him in that way of his that makes Mickey feel like he’s being looked at through a microscope. “Yeah, I guess there is. I dunno. Maybe I will.”

It falls quiet for a little while after that. Mickey doesn’t know _what_ to say here. He is so fucking far out of his depth drowning doesn’t even begin to cover it. Lip needs _help_ , he sees that now. But how do you even go about offering it? Would Lip even _accept_ it?

“Hey,” Lip says, leaning into Mickey and drawing him out of his thoughts. He might not be drunk, but he’s definitely not sober either, “thanks. For, uh. For talking to Youens.”

Mickey nudges him with his elbow and shakes his head. “It was nothing, man.”

“Nah. It was something.” Lip falls quiet for a couple seconds. “Not a lotta people woulda done it.”

Lip sounds so fucking _lost_ as he says it, like he genuinely believes no one else would’ve stepped up for him, and Mickey _hates_ it.

“You would’ve.” He hears himself say, although it feels it’s coming from someone else. “If it were the other way ‘round? You would’ve.”

It’s the truth, though, isn’t it? Lip Gallagher will stretch himself to breaking point if it means helping someone he cares about. Mickey’s _seen_ it. He remembers the fucking lengths Lip had gone to try and find Ian when he was missing, and, okay, he might have been keeping his distance, but it’s not like he hadn’t noticed what Lip was going through when Fiona got arrested.

Mickey’s willing to admit it had taken him a while to notice just how much Lip _cares_. But now that he has? Now that he knows Lip cares about _him_? He ain’t ever letting that go.

Maybe that makes him selfish. It probably does. But Mickey doesn’t care anymore.

 _He_ gets to choose what’s important to him. No one else.

“Yeah, maybe.” Lip scoffs. “Still. Not a lotta people woulda done it for _me_ , y’know?”

And that pisses Mickey off. Not because he thinks Lip’s trying to be self-pitying, or is feeling sorry for himself, or anything like that. It’s that he says it like he knows it’s a fact.

Lip deserves to know someone’s got his back. Same way Mickey knows Lip has his.

Mickey’s never been very good at this, but for Lip he’ll try. “You don’t _need_ a lotta people. You got me.”

Lip laughs, loud and clear. He turns his head to grin at Mickey, eyebrows nearing his hairline. “Oh, yeah? Well then, fuck, Mick. Guess you got me, too.”

Fucking idiot.

Mickey already _knows_ that.

*

For once in his life, Mickey is actually _trying_ to make dinner. The kind of trying that includes going to the store, buying actual vegetables and real beef, and using a kitchen knife for its intended purpose. Not just throwing something in the microwave and hoping it’s not still frozen in the middle when he starts eating it.

Mickey’s sudden appreciation for the importance of onions has got _nothing_ to do with Ian getting his job back and/or dumping Caleb. Anyone who suggests otherwise has got no idea what they’re talking about.

It has nothing to do with Ian.

Nothing.

Okay, so maybe it has _something_ to do with Ian. Or, well, maybe it had _started_ as having something to do with Ian. But now that he’s here, knife in hand and wiping watering eyes against the collar of his t-shirt, it might not be about him at all. Mickey’s willing to admit that there’s a part of him that _likes_ this whole cooking shit. And, okay, it’s not like chilli’s _hard_ to make – there are _four_ steps in the recipe he’s got pulled up on his phone for fuck sake – but that’s not the point. The point _is_ that Mickey’s doing this. On his own. He’s _making_ something, and it’s not complete shit.

Not yet at least.

All he’s done so far is chop up half an onion and not slice off a finger. And the pot of slowly browning beef on the stove hasn’t burnt yet, either.

It’s a process. Still, it’s more effort than he’s put into cooking since… probably ever?

He’s just finishing chopping the other half of the onion into rough chunks when he hears the front door slam shut. He glances up quickly, cursing under his breath when a few slices of onion drop to the floor and disappear under the kitchen cabinet. Why the _fuck_ are onions so slippery, anyway?

“Hey.” He calls out, scrambling to stop anymore falling onto the floor. “You’re home late.”

There’s shuffling as Ian shrugs his jacket off and hangs it up. Mickey pulls a clean plate out of the dish cupboard and starts spooning cooked beef onto it. He’s too busy scraping grease out of the pot onto a piece of kitchen paper – and when the _fuck_ did he become someone who buys kitchen paper? – to look in Ian’s direction. But he still senses it when Ian appears in the kitchen doorway and leans against the wall.

“What’re you doing?”

Mickey scrapes his chopped onion into the now-empty pot, turns a five-minute timer on, and then turns around to raise his eyebrows at Ian. He’s wearing his EMT uniform again. Good. “The fuck does it look like?”

“You’re cooking. Since when do you cook?”

Grabbing the grease stained paper, Mickey balls it up and throws it in the general direction of the trashcan. “Since now.”

Ian’s smiling, this small little thing that has no business making Mickey’s heart feel like it’s about to burst out of his fucking chest. “There a reason you’re starting _now_?”

Mickey hums, feels his mouth twitch, keeps his eyes trained on Ian’s. “Maybe.”

Ian pushes off the wall and wanders over towards him. Mickey watches him, eyebrows raised expectantly, smiling outright when Ian crowds him up against the counter, arms boxing him in on either side.

“What’s the reason?”

“That depends.”

“Depends on what?”

Mickey lets his hands settle on the collar of Ian’s shirt. Tongues at the corner of his mouth as he glances up at him. “Well, judging from this,” he says slowly, tugging Ian down a fraction by his shirt, “you got your job back. Good job, I’m real proud. But I guess that means it depends on somethin’ else you promised.”

Ian’s staring at his mouth, which isn’t fair because Mickey’s trying really fucking hard _not_ to kiss him right now. “Oh, yeah? What promise is that?”

“Seem to remember you promising to dump your boyfriend.”

Ian smiles. “Oh, _that_.”

Mickey nods, watches the way Ian sways a little closer towards him. “Yeah. That.”

“What happens if I did it?”

Mickey bites the inside of his lip so hard he tastes blood as he tries not to smile. “I’ll share my chilli with you.”

Using his grip on Ian’s collar, he slowly spins them around so Ian’s the one leaning against the counter. Ian doesn’t fight him, just lets go of the countertop and settles his hands on Mickey’s hips.

“Generous of you.”

“I’m a generous kinda guy.”

The timer on his phone goes off, and he pulls away from Ian, snorting when he feels Ian’s fingers tighten against his beltloops. He raises an eyebrow and sniffs.

“Planning on lettin’ go, man? I gotta actually, y’know, _cook,_ if you wanna eat.”

“I want _something_.”

Mickey groans and steps back enough that Ian has to let go. “That was fuckin’ terrible.”

Ian smiles at him, but thankfully doesn’t follow him. Mickey’s not sure he has it in him to stop himself twice. To make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid – and he fucking _refuses_ to, he’s doing his goddamn best with this food, he won’t let Ian ruin it – he turns back to the cans sitting beside the stove. He makes sure he opens the can of black beans over the sink so he can drain them without getting water everywhere. Ian’s not subtle, so Mickey can feel him staring, and he glances over at him.

The way Ian’s looking at him should be fucking _illegal_. Like, an actual crime.

Mickey snorts again and rolls his eyes. “Watching me open a can of beans really does it for you, huh? Oh, yeah, it’s real sexy.”

“Everything you do does it for me.”

The way _that_ makes his heart skip a beat is fucking embarrassing. He shakes his head and refuses to meet Ian’s eye. “You gonna stand and there and be annoying, or you gonna help?”

Ian pretends to consider it for a second, before he says, “Be annoying.”

Mickey huffs out a sigh and refuses to smile when Ian laughs. He gives the can a final shake and then peels the top off. He tips the beans into the pot and then moves onto the next can. Tomatoes this time. Then two tablespoons of chilli powder. Stirs in the beef.

The second he puts the lid over the pot and steps away from the stove, Ian grabs his wrist and pulls him to stand in between the v of his legs.

“You need something?” Mickey asks, hands shooting out to grab at Ian’s shoulders to stop himself stumbling.

“Not really.”

Ian’s arms wrap around his waist, and Mickey lets himself sink into it, lets himself be _held_ for a while. He wants, more than anything, to kiss Ian. The longer he stands here, the harder it gets not to just give in and do it. There’s a part of him that knows he should pull back. But Ian’s fingers are tracing gentle patterns against the small of his back, and he feels like home, and Mickey really doesn’t _want_ to move.

They don’t really say much for a few minutes. Just… _stand_ here, in the middle of the kitchen, and stare at each other. Mickey has to take a break every once in a while, eyes squeezing shut for a couple seconds until he feels calm enough to open them again.

Mickey doesn’t know how long they’ve been standing here. There’s a ten-minute timer on his phone, and it hasn’t gone off yet, so that’s something. But other than that, he’s got no idea. He shifts a little, slides his hands up so they’re resting against Ian’s cheeks, eyes searching Ian’s as he strokes his thumbs across his cheekbones.

“I love you.”

He says it because it’s true, and because he _means_ it more than he’s ever meant anything, and because he _wants_ to. Fuck, does he want to. He’s gone his whole goddamn life being told he’s not allowed, that he’s _wrong_ for wanting to be loved, that he’s wrong for wanting _to_ love.

There’s nothing _wrong_ about being in love with Ian Clayton Gallagher.

He won’t pretend that there is. Not anymore.

Ian’s breath hitches slightly, his fingers clenching against Mickey’s back. He dips down so he can rest their foreheads together, and one of Mickey’s hands slips to the back of his head to keep him there.

“I _love_ you.” He repeats.

Because he can. That’s a thing he can do, now. Tell the man he loves that he loves him.

And as great as that is, it’s not even the best part.

The best part is that Ian says it back.

“I love you.” Ian says it like a mantra, like it’s the most important thing in the whole fucking world. Like _Ian’s_ the one being given a gift in getting to say it.

And, well, that just throws what self-restraint he might have had out the window, doesn’t it?

Ian smiles against his mouth when Mickey finally kisses him. It starts off small and chaste, more the _idea_ of a kiss than the actual thing, because Ian’s head is still at a stupidly awkward angle. Mickey gives his hair a frustrated tug, and Ian laughs into his mouth, breath hot and smelling faintly of cigarette smoke.

“You’re so fuckin’ annoying.” Mickey mutters to him, murmuring in agreement when one of Ian’s hands settles against the back of his head.

“You love me.” Ian says, sounding so goddamn happy about it that it steals the air from Mickey’s lungs.

Mickey doesn’t bother answering him. Instead, he uses his grip on Ian’s neck to drag him down to his mouth properly and _kisses_ him, because he is fucking tired of waiting. He licks into Ian’s mouth, and there’s nothing chaste about it now, because _this is what he wants_. Ian groans deep in his throat, the tip of his tongue brushing against the inside of Mickey’s lower lip in a way that leaves him feeling a little lightheaded.

He has no idea how long they stand there making out like a pair of teenagers, but by the time the timer on his phone goes off, Ian’s hair is a mess, both of their shirts are rumpled, and their chests are heaving. Mickey pulls away from Ian’s mouth with a gasp that quickly turns into a low groan when Ian latches onto his neck instead.

“Ian.” He grunts, grappling for his phone and almost tripping over when Ian doesn’t let him go. “Come on, man.”

“I’m trying.” Ian huffs against his neck, and Mickey snorts before he can stop himself.

Ian hums, pleased, and Mickey uses the distraction to finally break free. He raises his eyebrows at the way Ian pouts at him.

“We’re eating.”

“I’m _trying_.” Ian insists, mouth twitching when Mickey rolls his eyes.

“We’re eating _food_ , asshole. That I _made_. So, you’re gonna sit your ass down, you’re gonna fuckin’ eat it, and you’re gonna pretend you like it, even if it’s shit.”

He sees Ian nod slowly out of the corner of his eye as he turns the burner off and moves the pot away from the stove, lifting the lid and inhaling softly. It smells good, which Mickey really hadn’t been expecting. Ian’s not subtle, though, so he easily dodges out of way when a hand reaches for his hip, and he levels a glare in Ian’s direction.

Ian does his absolute best to look innocent, but the way he’s looking at Mickey makes heat coil in his belly.

Fuck. Him.

Mickey shakes his head. “Do something useful and get bowls out for me.”

Ian snorts, but does as he’s told, thankfully. Doesn’t stop him from brushing against Mickey’s back as he does it, but at least he’s not being a total distraction. Mickey can manage.

The next couple minutes pass without incident, and by the time he drops down opposite Ian at the kitchen table, he’s feeling a little more put together. Ian waits for him to stop shuffling around with his chair, before hooking his foot around Mickey’s ankle, and he raises an eyebrow when Mickey meets his eye.

“So, what did you do with your day off?” Ian asks, digging a spoon into his food.

Mickey stays quiet, holding his breath, until after Ian’s taken a bite. He lets out a long breath through his nose when Ian makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat.

Ian gives him an expectant look, like the fact he hasn’t answered yet is weird, and Mickey shakes his head to clear it.

“Had a meetin’ with Seaver.”

“How’d that go?”

Mickey shoves a spoonful of chilli into his mouth and takes his time chewing on it. It’s… _good_. Like, actually good. He’s gotta look pretty shocked about it, because Ian snorts out a laugh and the way he smiles at Mickey has him feeling all kinds of flustered.

And now that they’re here, on opposite sides of the table, and grinning at each other like fucking _idiots_ , Mickey realises how goddamn _dumb_ he’s been.

Of course, Ian’s in love with him.

How did he ever think he wasn’t?

He swallows his food and wipes at the corner of his mouth. “Same way it went last time. I’m doing everything right, he’s ‘proud’ of me, or whatever. Thinks there’s ‘great hope’ for my future.”

Ian’s smile softens down into something that is almost painful to look at. “Oh, really?”

“Might wanna start taking notes, seeing as I’m a model fuckin’ citizen now.”

They fall into a comfortable quiet for the next few minutes, both of them content to just _exist_ together. Eventually, Ian’s foot shifts on his leg, not enough for it to _mean_ anything, but enough for it to draw Mickey’s attention. Mickey glances away from where he’s scraping up the last of his chilli.

“I, uh.” Ian scratches at his jaw. “Talked to Lip, earlier.”

Mickey lowers his spoon and chews on the inside of his lip. “He tell you what happened?”

“Yeah. Told me what you did. What you’ve _been_ doing.” Ian tries to smile, but it doesn’t get all that far before falling away. “Thanks.”

“I’m sorry for not telling you.”

And he _is_. He _is_ sorry that he’s kept secrets from Ian because he doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t. But, if given the chance to change it, he knows he wouldn’t. They were never _his_ secrets to tell. That’s why he’d kept them in the first place.

Ian shakes his head. “It’s okay. I get it. If anything, I’m… glad? That he has someone to talk to.”

Mickey really doesn’t like the look on Ian’s face, like he’s losing something in admitting it. His wrist is warm under Mickey’s fingers when he reaches across the table.

“You wanna know why he didn’t say anything to you?” Ian looks up at him and Mickey smiles. “He was worried about _you_.”

Ian snorts. “Yeah, well, he’s a fucking dumbass.”

“Hey, no arguments from me.” Mickey strokes his thumb over the knob of Ian’s wrist. “It’s not ‘cause he doesn’t trust you.”

“I know.” Ian says quietly.

“Fucker talks about you almost as much as I do.” Mickey says, _knowing_ what he’s giving away in saying it.

Ian’s smile is bright and hopeful. “You talk about me?”

Mickey sniffs, scratches at his temple. “Not like we sit around braiding each other’s hair, or anythin’. But yeah. We talk about you.”

“What do you say?”

“That you’re a giant pain in the ass.” Mickey grins. “And that you’re a fuckin’ idiot for taking so goddamn long to figure your shit out.”

Ian ducks his head with a quiet laugh. “Yeah, maybe.”

Mickey shoves the last spoonful of chilli into his mouth, and let’s the spoon clatter into the bowl on a contented sigh. He leans back in his chair and gives Ian a slow look.

“You done?” He asks, pointing at Ian’s empty bowl.

When Ian nods, Mickey pushes to his feet and starts clearing the table. As Mickey dumps the bowls in the sink, he feels Ian coming up behind him and smiles. He turns enough to glance over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow.

“You want something?”

Ian’s hands land on his hips, gently nudging him until he’s forced to turn around completely. Mickey stares up at him and struggles to keep his smile in check.

“You.”

One day Mickey will get used to Ian just… _saying_ shit like this.

Today, as it turns out, is _not_ that day, and he literally feels his heart skip a beat. Mickey reaches up to brush his fingers over Ian’s cheek, smiling a little at the way Ian’s breath hitches. Good. Two can play at that game.

“Oh, yeah? Last I checked, you already have me. So, what now?”

Ian grins at him. Kisses him _slow_. Tugs at his beltloops, the tips of his fingers dancing just under the waistband of his jeans.

“I got a few ideas.”

When Mickey wakes up to Ian’s alarm in the morning, he is warm and content. Ian’s arm is wrapped around his waist, their hands joined loosely against Mickey’s chest. He aches in the best fucking way possible and he can already feel a pretty impressive hickey on the inside of his right thigh.

The alarm doesn’t stop, and Mickey sighs, blinking against the light streaming in through his open curtains. One day he’ll remember to close them before going to sleep. Ian’s arm tightens around him, his breath hot and steady against Mickey’s neck, and he’s powerless to stop himself leaning back into it for a second. He’s _missed_ this, so fucking sue him. He’s allowed to have a moment of weakness first thing in the goddamn morning. Ian’s knee pokes him in the back of the thigh as he shifts.

“You gonna turn that off?”

Ian groans into his neck, lips brushing his shoulder. “Maybe if we just ignore it, it’ll fuck off on its own?”

“Not sure that’s how it works, man.” Mickey says, finally pulling away and gently untangling their fingers.

He ignores Ian’s grumbling, in favour of slowly sitting up and running a hand through his hair. The alarm shuts off abruptly, and he glances over his shoulder to see Ian hanging halfway off the bed, hands scrambling with his jeans as he throws them back on the floor.

Ian shimmies back onto the bed, landing on his back with a huff, and frowns at him. “Where’re you going?”

Truthfully, Mickey hadn’t actually been planning on _going_ anywhere. The only reason he’d moved was to get Ian to turn his alarm off.

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s it matter to you?”

“No leaving.”

“Says who?” Mickey asks, mouth curling into a grin at the look on Ian’s face.

He’s not even slightly surprised when Ian pulls him back down onto the mattress. He bounces slightly with the force of it, staring up at Ian as his hands come to bracket either side of Mickey’s head. Mickey dances his fingers up Ian’s arms, watches the way he shivers with it, and lets them come to a stop on the side of his neck.

Ian smiles down at him like he’s the most beautiful thing in the world. Like he can’t quite believe Mickey is _real_. Mickey brushes his fingers over Ian’s pulse point, smiles at the way it spikes, and up into the hair at the nape of his neck so he can gently pull Ian down to kiss him.

It should be gross – they both have morning breath, and they definitely both _stink_ of sex and sweat and cum – but Mickey can’t find it in himself to care. He’s in bed making out with the love of his fucking _life_ , what could _possibly_ be better than this?

Ian settles his weight on top of Mickey, solid and reassuring in a way that makes Mickey feel _present_ in his body. _That_. That could be better. He smiles into the next kiss, and lets his brain turn off for a while.

He has no idea how long they stay there, but eventually Ian pulls away to stare down at him. His eyes are everywhere, like he can’t figure out what he wants to look at first. When he does meet Mickey’s eye, he smiles. Like he’s the luckiest guy in the fucking _universe_ for getting to have this.

As if Mickey doesn’t look at him and think the same.

“I love you.”

Mickey huffs, grunting softly when Ian rolls off him so they’re side by side instead. He shifts onto his side and lets Ian tug him closer, legs tangling together as Ian fusses with the sheets until they’re both covered again.

“I really fucking do.”

“I know.” Mickey says, because he _does_. He always _has_. He lifts his hand so he can stroke Ian’s cheek, rubbing his thumb across Ian’s cheekbone. “I love you, too.”

“I’m sorry for being such an idiot.”

Mickey shrugs, smiling a little. “I’m used to you being a dumbass.”

Ian’s mouth twitches, but he shakes his head. “No, I _mean_ it. I’m _sorry_. You deserve… _everything_. And I can’t give you that.”

“Ian–.” Mickey starts to protest, but Ian waves him off.

“But… I’ve started to realise that’s always been true. Even before,” he gestures at himself, “all this. I was never gonna be able to give you that.”

Mickey is in love with a fucking _idiot_. He rolls his eyes and pats Ian’s cheek. “I don’t give a fuck about what I ‘deserve’. You hear me? It’s what I _want_ that matters. What I’ve always wanted.”

Ian lets out a watery breath, eyes so fucking hopeful it takes Mickey’s breath away. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“You, you fuckin’ dumbass. Jesus, Ian, you’re under my fuckin’ _skin_. I’m never gonna _want_ anyone the way that I want you.” Mickey takes a deep breath. Lets himself _feel_ for a second, and fuck, but it’s overwhelming. “You’re _it_ for me, y’know?”

Ian looks like someone just hit him over the head with a fucking crowbar. Just completely dazed, and maybe a little awestruck, and it makes Mickey’s chest fucking _ache_. Christ, but he _loves him_.

Then he seems to snap outta it, because he starts peppering Mickey’s face with kisses, laughing against Mickey’s skin when he lets out a surprised noise. It’s dumb, and it’s cheesy, and it makes Mickey feel like he’s floating seven feet above the goddamn ground.

He never wants to be anywhere else.

He never wants to be _with_ anyone else.

He wasn’t lying when he said that Ian is it for him.

Ian pulls away enough to press their foreheads together. “I spent so long trying to convince myself I wasn’t in love with you anymore, and I was just so fucking stupid, because… I couldn’t get you outta my head. I know what love _is_ ‘cause of you.”

It is too goddamn early for this shit. Mickey feels flayed open and raw as _fuck_. And he _knows_ they’ve got shit to do this morning before heading over to the church for Fiona’s wedding. But that doesn’t stop him from taking Ian’s face between his palms and kissing him.

The real world can fucking _wait_ for half an hour.

*

Mickey’s having a lastminute cigarette when Ian pushes the heavy church door open and steps out onto the sidewalk, hinges creaking noisily. Ian squints against the light but immediately smiles when he spots Mickey. Mickey nods at him and ignores the way that stupid fucking smile makes him feel.

Ian takes the steps two at a time and comes to a stop at his shoulder. He reaches out and steals the cigarette straight from Mickey’s mouth, shrugging unapologetically when Mickey glares at him.

“You seen Lip anywhere?” Ian asks as he takes a drag.

Mickey shakes his head and takes the cigarette back, watching the way Ian tilts to look up at the sky as he blows out a stream of smoke. “Nah, not since we got here.”

“I can’t find him.”

“You want help?”

Ian nods and Mickey throws what’s left of the cigarette at a nearby pile of greying snow. He straightens up and tugs on the bottom of his shirt. It’s a little wrinkled, and at this point he’s just accepted that they’re never coming out. Ian doesn’t immediately move, and Mickey raises his eyebrows at him.

“We going or not, Gallagher?”

Ian smiles again. “Yeah, I just. I love you.”

Mickey flushes immediately and ducks his head. “Shut the fuck up.”

“I do. I really fucking love you, Mickey Milkovich.”

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” He shakes his head and brushes past Ian’s shoulder. He ignores the heat in his stomach when Ian grabs him by the wrist and swings him back around, although he can’t stop himself from glancing at Ian’s mouth. “ _What_?”

“Say it _back_ , asshole.”

Mickey huffs, makes a show of looking really put out, even as he fights back a smile. “You- _Fine_. I love you, too. Happy? Can we go find your dumbass brother now?”

Ian’s smile grows, and he uses his grip on Mickey’s wrist to gently tug him closer. When he has Mickey where he wants him, he wraps his arms around Mickey’s waist and grins down at him. Mickey _tries_ to scowl up at him. He really does. But Ian’s looking at him like he’s the answer to every question in the universe, and all Mickey _really_ wants to do is kiss him.

So, he does.

Because that’s a thing he can do now. Kiss Ian. Whenever he wants.

It’s kinda the best thing ever.

Ian huffs out a quiet laugh as Mickey pulls his head down, warm breath fanning out across Mickey’s cheek. Ian’s lips are dry and a little chapped, but Mickey really doesn’t care. He lets his hand rest against Ian’s neck, fingernails scratching behind his ear when Ian nips his bottom lip and immediately soothes the sting with the barest hint of tongue. Mickey’s mouth falls open, and he feels Ian’s hand on the small of his back at the first brush of tongue. Ian’s other hand comes up to cradle the back of his head and Mickey very nearly sinks into him.

Kissing Ian feels like coming home. Each and every time he does it, another part of him settles, finds its place, comes to rest.

This right here, kissing Ian in the middle of a busy Chicago street, is all Mickey wants to do for the rest of his _life_. This is _it_. The thing he’s spent his entire fucking life fighting for. In one, single, moment that he doesn’t want to end. But it does – because it has to, because Fiona’s getting married, and they have a _life_ outside of this little bubble – and Mickey thinks that’s probably okay. He has the rest of his goddamn _life_ to relive this.

 _Whenever he wants_.

So, he pulls back before they can go too far, resting a hand against Ian’s chest to push him away. He laughs a little at the way Ian pouts at him.

“Can we _go_ now?” He asks, like he’s not the reason they’re still here.

Ian laughs again, but nods. He reaches up to fiddle with Mickey’s collar, although from the way his hands are lingering, it’s just so he can keep touching Mickey. He’s not subtle.

Mickey rolls his eyes as he slaps Ian’s hand away. He bites his lip to stop himself from pulling Ian into another kiss and stakes a step back.

“Let’s _go_.”

“Okay, okay.”

Ian pushes past Mickey, snagging his hand again and intertwining their fingers as he walks back towards the door. He holds the door open for Mickey and smiles at the way he raises his eyebrow.

They walk between the pews hand in hand, and Mickey’s breath is stuck in his throat the whole time. He’s never been a religion kinda guy, has never really seen the _point_ in believing in any big guy in the sky. But there’s something about being in here and openly holding Ian’s hand that makes his heart beat in rapid time. Like, any second now one of them is gonna burst into flames, or struck by lightning, or some shit.

He doesn’t relax until they’ve reached the back corridor, and he although he will _never_ admit it, he is insanely grateful Ian hasn’t mentioned how sweaty his palm is.

“You got any idea where he could be?”

Ian shrugs. “He wasn’t in our room, or the kitchen, _or_ with Fiona. Guess it can’t hurt to some of them check again. But Fiona _can’t_ know, okay?”

Not much chance of her finding out from Mickey because he has no idea where they’ve hidden her. He’s not complaining, though. The five seconds he and Svetlana had been in the same room this morning had been enough, he doesn’t need her giving him anymore knowing looks today, _thank you_.

He nods anyway and lets Ian start pulling him down the narrow corridor that leads to the kitchen. It’s not exactly a huge building or anything, so the sound of retching catches his attention almost immediately. Ian is slightly ahead of him, so he tugs on his hand to draw his attention and nods at the door of the nearby restroom.

Ian’s eyebrows furrow but he rolls his shoulders and leads the way over to the door.

“Lip? You in here?”

The retching grows louder as Ian pushes the door open and Mickey winces a little. It sounds fucking _painful_. Lip is hunched over the middle toiler, one hand braced on the wall as he pukes. Mickey hates it. Hates that there’s nothing he can _do_ here, except return Ian’s concerned look and shrug.

“We’re, uh, almost ready to start.”

Lip lifts his hand high enough to give them a thumbs up. He’s gasping in a way that Mickey doesn’t fully trust, but after a couple seconds he coughs and flushes the toilet. Ian lets go of Mickey’s hand so he can lean against the door and stare blankly at the opposite wall.

It doesn’t take Lip long to get to his feet, but when he does, he’s pale and shaky. There’s a part of Mickey that wants to help him over to the sink, because he looks like he’s about to fall the fuck over, but he knows Lip will only shake him off. So, he doesn’t. He watches Lip walk over to the sink, turn on the faucet, and rinse his face.

“You good?” Mickey asks as he’s drying off his face with a hand towel.

Lip doesn’t say anything, but he nods jerkily. Ian’s face is blank. Like, it’s just completely devoid of _any_ emotion, and Mickey knows, he can _see_ , that there’s something going on here he doesn’t fully understand. He wants to do something about it, but he doesn’t have the time to figure it out and patch them both back together.

“Then let’s go.” He says.

Ian doesn’t immediately move, so Mickey kicks at his foot. He raises his eyebrows.

“You gonna let us outta here, man?”

Ian pushes away from the door so they can actually leave, and Mickey’s pleased to see his lips twitch a little. It’s quiet as they walk to whatever back room Fiona’s hiding in, Mickey and Ian falling into step on either side of Lip. He doesn’t know if it’s intentional or not, but with the way Lip’s swaying it can’t be a bad thing. Just in case.

The pews are starting to fill up as people Mickey has no goddamn hope of knowing or recognising slowly taking their seats. Lip’s steadier on his feet now. At the very least he doesn’t look like he’s about to fall over, anyway. Still, Mickey _worries_. Because that’s a thing he does now, apparently. Worries about Lip Gallagher.

When the fuck did this become Mickey’s life?

And it’s not like he can even blame Ian for this. This is all his _own_ doing. It’s not like anyone held him at gunpoint and _forced_ him to become friends with the asshole. No, this is all a result of Mickey’s own terrible judgement.

Mickey can’t stop watching him. Like, he tries not to. Tries to focus on something, literally _anything_ , else. But it never takes long for his eyes to land on him again. He looks… rough. Like, _really_ rough. And Mickey doesn’t know what to do about it. It’s not like he hasn’t noticed Lip’s been drinking a lot recently. Of course, he has. But that’s just… the way things are around here. People drink. The same way people do drugs, and they have sex, and they do what they have to so they can survive. It’s just the way things _are_. But something is clearly wrong here and doesn’t _know_ how to help. Whether Lip will even _let_ him if he tries. So, he keeps his eyes on Lip, and his hands by his side just in case. Because it’s all he _can_ do.

Lip clearly knows something’s up with him, though, because he glances over and raises an eyebrow. Mickey shakes his head even though knows Lip’s not gonna buy it. There’s no way. Because being able to read him like a fucking book is apparently just a Gallagher family trait. Gather round everyone, he’s on loan from the public goddamn library.

Ian takes the opportunity to straighten Lip’s tie, smooths his hand over Lip’s shoulder and tries to smile. Mickey can’t see his face from this angle, but he _thinks_ Lip returns it. He pats Ian on the back, anyway, before they carry on walking.

People have been setting up for hours, so it’s not really much of a surprise that they’re some of the last to get there. It’s pretty crowded, and he definitely doesn’t recognise any of the people putting finishing touches into place. Mickey does a quick sweep of the room for people he knows, and from the looks of it the ones missing are Fiona, Vee, and Svetlana. And Debbie, but, well. Whether or not she’s actually gonna show up is the question of the fucking day, isn’t it?

Anyway, Mickey is really _, really_ glad Svetlana’s not here right now because he’s already feeling a little short of breath.

Ian must sense something’s wrong, because he stops so he can hover at Mickey’s side, nodding at Lip to carry on without them. His hands are shaking, like he wants to reach out and touch, but isn’t sure if he’s allowed to here now that they’re in front of others. Mickey nods, once. Forces himself to take a deep breath when Ian’s dry palm connects with his, when Ian’s _stupidly_ long fingers slot between his, when Ian rubs his thumb over Mickey’s knuckles. Forces himself to let it out.

It’s okay. Everything is _fine_.

 _Fiona’s_ the one getting hitched. Not him.

He’s _fine_.

“You okay?” Ian asks quietly, leaning further into him to get out of someone’s way, and _fuck_ but Mickey loves him.

He nods. “Yeah, think so.”

“Lemme know if you’re not, okay?”

Mickey squeezes his hand but doesn’t answer him. He doesn’t need to because Ian will _know_. Because Ian knows _Mickey_. He takes another deep breath.

“I think we’re all set. Not sure about the bride.” Sean says to the priest.

He’s not talking to _them_ , obviously, but he still turns in their direction. Mickey automatically flinches because _Jesus_ those bruises look rough.

Kev’s standing next to the priest, fixing his cufflinks, but he looks up at this and starts moving almost immediately. “I’ll go check.”

Ian tugs on Mickey’s hand, gently pulling him over towards Carl, Lip and Dom. Mickey lets him. Partly because he’s suddenly too tired to really fight it. Mostly, though, it’s because he maybe, _secretly_ , wants to spend time with them.

Carl smiles at him, and Mickey’s relieved to see he’s not wearing a bandaid over his forehead anymore. Ian reaches out to ruffle his hair, and Carl ducks out of the way with a laugh. Lip scoffs, waiting until Carl’s tipped into his personal space before he grabs him in a light headlock. Carl slaps at his arm, scowling at him when he lets go. The scowl melts away when Dom starts fixing his hair, and Lip and Ian share an eyeroll.

“Dunno what you’re worried about.” Ian teases, flicking at Carl’s tie with a grin. “Not like you’ve got an important job.”

Carl bats him away and glances at Mickey, like he wants to say something but isn’t sure if he can. Then his smile grows a little, and he says, “Someone’s gotta babysit Mickey.”

Ian’s grin grows, Lip outright laughs, and Mickey shakes his head solemnly.

“I’m not the one who needed help getting out of a gang, am I?” He raises his eyebrows, smile tugging at his mouth when Carl ducks his head in embarrassment.

Ian’s arm settles across his shoulders, solid and warm, and it makes him jolt a little. He relaxes almost immediately, because he’s _safe_ , it’s fine, nothing can happen here, and he _knows_ it. It’s not a conscious thing, to reach up and slot their fingers together, but even when he realises what he’s done, he doesn’t care. In this room, with these people, he is _safe_. He sees Ian smile out of the corner of his eye and sighs, because it promises that whatever he’s about to say is gonna be fucking _dumb_.

“No, you’re just the idiot who decided to help.”

The grip he has on Ian’s hand means Ian can’t dodge away from Mickey elbowing him in the ribs. Mickey smirks up at him and then pulls his arm tighter over his shoulder. He ignores the way Lip’s smiling at them, all knowing and… _satisfied_ , like he’s just won the goddamn lottery.

The door behind them creaks open again and the five of them turn in tandem to see Debbie slipping inside. None of them move at first, and then it seems to hit all at once, because Lip darts forward to greet her. Franny’s strapped to her chest, so he settles for wrapping a protective arm around her shoulder and guiding her towards them.

“Hey, you made it.” Ian says softly, in the way he only ever is with one of his younger siblings. “Didn’t think you were gonna show.”

“Neither did I.” Debbie says, and Mickey knows she’s trying to act tough, but the way she’s leaning into Lip gives her away. “But, I. I want Franny to be in the wedding pictures. You think Fiona will still let me?”

“‘Course she will, Debs.” Lip says, gently steering her towards in the direction Kev had disappeared. “We’re gonna start soon, anyway, you wanna come with me and Ian?”

He raises his eyebrows at Ian over the top of her head. Ian nods and untangles himself from Mickey with an apologetic smile. Mickey holds onto his hand for a couple seconds, before squeezing his fingers and letting go.

“Will you guys watch Liam?” Ian asks them.

Mickey hasn’t seen the youngest Gallagher sibling since first thing this morning, and he’d honestly thought Fiona had him. But when he glances over at Carl, it’s to find him crouching in front of Liam so he can straighten his bowtie.

When he turns back around to give Ian a nod, they’ve already disappeared off down the corridor. Mickey sighs, shoves his hands in his pockets, and resigns himself to the next couple minutes of awkward silence.

Fiona looks beautiful. Mickey will be the first person to admit he knows fuck all about fashion or anything, but right now? Fiona’s beautiful. Lip and Ian lead her out into the main room, and she smiles when she sees them all standing here waiting.

Mickey’s eyes land on Ian, and he smiles when Ian winks at him. Has to bite the inside of his fucking cheek when Ian comes to stand next to him, hand brushing against Mickey’s in silent invitation. Mickey rolls his eyes and takes Ian’s hand, resolutely _not_ looking at the way Ian’s entire face lights up.

Fuck, but this whole being in love thing is embarrassing as shit.

“Groomsmen and groom, follow us.” The priest says. “Line up on the right.”

Sean and his kid step off to the side. Lip comes to stand on Mickey’s other side and nudges him with an elbow. He looks pointedly at where Ian’s holding his hand, and raises his eyebrows, small little smirk firmly in place. Mickey flips him off as discreetly as he can, mouth twitching when Lip huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Maid of honour and bride.”

Fiona, V and Svetlana step forward, Debbie trailing after them.

She puts a steadying hand on the back of Franny’s head, and asks, “What about the flower girl?”

V visibly flounders for a second, before taking a few quick strides over to Dom. There’s a tiny little white basket in her hand that Mickey hadn’t noticed before, and she hands it over to V.

“Sorry, sweetie. Family first.”

“All those not in the wedding party, please find seats.”

That’s his cue, then, he guesses. He slowly pulls his hand away from Ian’s, sighing dramatically when Ian latches on tighter for a second. Ian glances at him, and Mickey can read the question there as clear as day. _Is it okay?_ He nods, once, tries not to smile at the way Ian breaks out in a grin. Fails not to smile when Ian bends to kiss him on the cheek. Rolls his eyes at the way Carl is grinning at him from across the room.

“So, who’s giving the bride away?” The priest asks.

Mickey steps away from Ian as Lip raises his hand. After a second’s pause Ian lifts his hand, too.

“I-I am.”

Heads swivel in the direction of Frank’s voice, and Mickey catches sight of Lip’s face. Trouble. There’s gonna be _trouble_. Mickey tenses without meaning to, shoulders rigid under his suit jacket.

“Father… here I am, father of the bride.” Frank is still pulling his jacket off as he stomps across the room towards them. There’s a bruise, almost as bad as Sean’s, and Mickey wonders briefly if they did that to each other.

“Frank?” Fiona asks disbelievingly, frown firmly in place.

“Where do you want me, padre?” Frank finishes pulling his jacket off and throws it over the back of a chair behind the priest.

“No. Absolutely not.”

Mickey sees Lip and Ian glance at each other, and then they’re moving as one. He hangs back. Not because he doesn’t want to get involved – he’s sure he’s just one of many who wouldn’t hesitate to punch Frank in the fucking face – but because he trusts them to know how to handle it. He’ll move if, and when, he’s needed.

“Frank, come on. Get outta here.” Lip says, as he and Ian come up on either side of Frank and grab him by the arms.

Frank puts up a fight as they start wrestling him towards the door. And it would be impressive, just how fucking squirrely he is if it weren’t for the fact he’s _Frank_. “Hey, I’m your _father_. I have a _right_.” He manages to free himself and swings around to face them. “I have a, a duty… to walk my daughter down the aisle and to give her away.”

Ian follows after him, arms crossed over his chest. Mickey gives him a questioning look, lets his hands hang loose at his sides. Hopes Ian _gets_ it. Ian shakes his head.

“Jesus, are you _high_?” Fiona asks, and he hadn’t noticed her moving, but now she’s standing next right next to him.

He shifts closer, not quite close enough to touch, but enough to let her know he’s _here_. Feels her sway a little closer to him, too.

Frank stares at her, lets out a huff of air, and then says, “Yes, I am, actually, but that’s beside the point.”

Kev steps forward, getting in between Frank and Fiona. “Come on. Come on, Frank. Let’s go.”

“Nobody wants you here, Frank, just go.” Sean says.

Not that it makes any fucking difference, because Frank dodges around Kev to get in Fiona’s face again. Jesus, does this man ever fucking _stop_? Mickey had managed to forget, somehow, just how _annoying_ he is. Mickey keeps his eyes trained on Lip and Ian. He won’t move until they do, it’s not his place. They might _want_ him here, but they’ve been dealing with Frank their entire fucking lives. He won’t do anything until they do.

“I’m your father.” Frank takes a step forward, even as Fiona scowls at him. “I may not’ve always been a great one, but I’m still your father, and I’m gonna walk you down that fucking aisle.”

“Do we have a problem?” The priest cuts in, and honestly Mickey had forgotten where they even are for a second.

This fucking family and their goddamn drama.

It’s a shame, really, that he likes some of them so much.

“Uh, no, we don’t.” Sean says.

Mickey doesn’t know why he bothers, honestly, because it’s obvious Frank’s not gonna listen to anyone.

Apparently, he’s the only one with functioning fucking brain cells right now, though, because Sean continues. “Go, Frank. You’re not wanted here.”

Frank finally shifts his attention away from Fiona, and there’s something about the look in his eye that Mickey does _not_ like. “Why, Sean? Why am I not wanted here? Am I a disappointment? Have I disappointed you, Sean?”

Sean starts talking, but Mickey’s not really paying attention to _what_. He’s more concerned with the look on Ian’s face. Like he’s gearing up for a fight. Like he’s already resigned himself to Frank ruining everything, because that’s just what Frank _does_.

He tunes back in in time to hear Fiona say, “I don’t want you here.”

And then everything devolves into chaos. Everyone starts shouting at once, and it’s the usual Gallagher noise of everyone talking over each other, except this time there’s _hate_ behind it.

Mickey’s never really realised just how much the Gallaghers _hate_ Frank. He’s always been caught up in how fucking shitty his own family are to have ever _truly_ noticed just how much they hate Frank. It’s not a shock, exactly. He’s always known on _some_ level that Frank’s fucking awful.

It’s more like he’s finally seeing what Ian’s always said about him.

And sure, between his own father and Frank, he’d take Frank in a goddamn heartbeat. But that doesn’t mean Frank isn’t his own kind of terrible.

“Please.” He hears Fiona say. “Please, Frank. This is my wedding day. Please don’t fuck it up.”

Mickey wants to move. He _wants_ to go and stand next to Ian, because Ian looks like he’s either about to pass out or lose his shit. Lip doesn’t look much better. But moving would mean stepping away from Fiona, and he’s not prepared to do that, either.

So, for now he’s stuck here. Listening to Frank spout bullshit about loving his kids, and about always accepting them, or whatever. It’s bullshit. It’s _all_ bullshit. Mickey’s seen first fucking hand who parents that household, and Frank isn’t even _close_ to the top of the list.

He almost moves when Frank brings up Lip’s drinking. His foot scuffs against the floor when Frank turns on _Ian_. But it doesn’t last long enough for him to actually _do_ anything about it, because a second later he’s moved onto Debbie.

What Mickey doesn’t understand is why they just let Frank carry on talking. If it were up to him – and sadly it ain’t, although _fuck_ he wishes it was – Frank woulda been shut down the second he stepped in here. At the very least he wishes Frank would hurry the fuck up with whatever he’s doing, so either they can get this show on the road, or he can help pick up the pieces.

At this point, he doesn’t really care which.

“Is this true?” Fiona asks, and when Mickey glances over at her, she’s on the verge of crying.

And doesn’t that just ruin everything? See, Mickey doesn’t really give a fuck about Sean one way or the other. But Fiona? Mickey _likes_ Fiona.

Mickey knows a thing or two about heartbreak.

And watching Fiona have everything ripped away from her because of her asshole father hits a little too close to home. For a brief, _brief_ , second, he is eighteen years old again and terrified out of his goddamn _mind_.

But this isn’t that, he’s not _there_ anymore, he’s _here_ , and it’s a completely different father ruining his child’s life.

Which is why, when Lip finally breaks and darts forward to punch Frank in the face and give him a matching bruise over the other eye, Mickey is right there with him. Not that it really matters, because the force of Lip’s punch sends Frank sprawling to the ground – and either Mickey has been severely underestimating Lip, or Frank is so fucking high a light breeze woulda done the same thing.

Mickey’s a little disappointed when it doesn’t turn into a full-on fight. Ian and Kev grab Lip, holding him back from doing anything else. And Mickey can’t even be mad because it’s obviously more for Lip’s sake than Frank’s.

Which is a good thing. It’s where their priorities _should_ be.

It’s where Mickey’s should be, too.

Doesn’t stop there being a very small part of him that wants to just… kick Frank’s ass, though. For all the shit he’s _ever_ done. But if he starts, he will never stop. And he’s not about to back to prison for fucking _Frank Gallagher_.

It’s the adrenaline talking, that’s all.

He catches Ian’s eye, as Kev gently leads Lip across the room and away from Frank. Ian smiles, but there’s nothing happy in it, and he jerks his chin at where Frank’s laying on the ground. Mickey nods, stepping forwards to do what he can to help. Between the two of them – three, when Carl joins in – they manage to get Frank into an empty storage cupboard nearby.

Mickey kinda loses track of what happens after that. Not on purpose. He doesn’t _mean_ to. It’s just that as soon as they’ve dealt with Frank, everybody else starts moving – Fiona’s gone, V and Svetlana with her, Lip’s not with Kev anymore, Carl and Dom have vanished.

The only constant, as always, is Ian.

“You okay?” Mickey asks as Ian lowers himself down onto the pew beside him.

Ian takes his hand, fingers warm and calloused against Mickey’s. Comforting in a way that very few things are. He lets out a long breath and tries to smile.

“Fucking Frank, huh?”

Mickey leans into him. “Fucking Frank.”

“Shoulda known something was gonna go wrong.” Ian says quietly, then lets out a small laugh. “It always does.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s _all_ bad.” Mickey says, lips pulling up in a smile when Ian glances over at him. “You don’t look like complete shit in a suit.”

Ian grins. It’s small, but it’s pleased, and it makes Mickey’s chest stop aching. “You don’t look so bad either, y’know?”

“Oh, I know.”

“You’re _such_ a dick.” Ian laughs, but he squeezes Mickey’s hand.

They’re safe here. Mickey _knows_ they are. They’re alone, and they’re safe, and for once in his fucking life he wishes he didn’t have to check first. But he scans the room quickly anyway, gives it a once over, and sees what he already fucking _knows_. They’re _okay_.

So, he leans up to kiss Ian on the jaw. Smiles against his neck when Ian shifts to wrap his arm over his shoulders.

“You wanna get outta here soon?”

Ian turns to him, all raised eyebrows and small, disbelieving smile. They’d kissed on the fucking sidewalk earlier, and _this_ is what surprises him?

“Yeah, sure.” Ian says. “I’ll go tell Fiona.”

It’s stupid. Being disappointed when Ian lets go of him. But he is. He can’t help it.

He wants to be with Ian all the fucking time.

Ian pauses once he’s on his feet, turns back to him. Shrugs. Leans down to kiss him. Smiles into his mouth when Mickey’s hand shoots to his neck.

It’s short-lived because a door banging somewhere in the distance has Mickey freezing in place. He relaxes after a couple seconds, sharp shards of panic running down his arms, through his chest. He’s safe. He’s _safe_. Ian’s hand is on his shoulder, and he’s staring in the direction the noise came from.

Ian glances down at him and shrugs. “Just one of the choirboys.”

Mickey nods. It’s like the bubble he’d let himself sink into has burst, though, because suddenly he doesn’t wanna be in here anymore. He lets Ian take his hand, lets him pull him to his feet, lets him guide him towards the door.

It passes in a daze, but by the time Ian draws to a stop, his heartbeat is more or less back to normal.

“Wait here.” Ian says, hands so fucking gentle against Mickey’s cheeks it makes him want to cry a little. “I’m gonna find Fiona.”

He hangs around for a second, smiling softly when Mickey huffs at him and rolls his eyes.

“Fuck _off_ , man.”

When Ian’s gone, Mickey slowly lets out a breath and leans against the wall for a moment.

One day he’ll stop being so goddamn _scared_ all the time. One day he’ll be able to walk down the street holding Ian’s hand and not feel like he has to constantly look over his shoulder.

It doesn’t make _sense_. He’d been _fine_ this morning. Why does it feel like the rug’s being pulled out from under him _now_?

He doesn’t realise he’s pacing until he hears Debbie’s voice through the closed door in front of him.

“I don’t want you to end up like Frank, okay?”

And that draws Mickey up short. Reminds him there’s other shit going on. _Important_ shit.

He wants to go in there and tell Debbie she’s wrong. That Lip’s _not_ his father. That Lip is one thousand times the man Frank Gallagher has ever _been_ , or ever _will_ _be_.

But he doesn’t move straight away. What he’s gotta say? He’ll say to Lip. And only Lip. Because Lip’s the only one he cares about.

So, he waits a couple minutes, until he hears the sound of a door closing, and then he carefully steps into the room. Lip’s back is facing him and his shoulders are slumped in a way that Mickey really doesn’t like. He glances over his shoulder when Mickey starts walking towards him and tries for a smile.

“You’re not him, y’know?” Mickey says in greeting, dropping down beside Lip and bumping their shoulders together.

Getting right into, then. Okay.

“Huh?”

“Frank. You’re not him.”

Lip makes a disbelieving noise and sniffs. “Yeah, sure.”

“You’re _not_.” Mickey insists, and he has no idea why it’s so important for Lip to understand that he means it, but it _is_. “What? You think I’d lie to you?”

Lip’s quiet for a moment, before shaking his head. “No. You’re one of the few I trust to tell the truth, actually.”

That makes Mickey pause. Makes him _think_.

“You, too.” He admits quietly. “You don’t gotta believe me, man, but. You’re better than him.”

“I’m a fuckin’ drunk, Mick. Just like he is.”

“Yeah. You are.” Mickey allows, because there’s no fucking _point_ in lying about it. “He’s not an asshole because of the alcohol, though. That’s just him.”

“You sayin’ I’m an asshole?”

“Have you _met_ you?” Mickey snorts, knocking their knees together. “‘Course you’re a fucking asshole.”

Lip laughs. It’s a small, broken thing, and Mickey fucking _hates_ it.

“Lip,” he says, and his heart is beating rapid time because they don’t _do_ this. They don’t _do_ actual genuine emotion, because it is too fucking hard, and it is too fucking _real_ , and Mickey has never been good at either of those things. But he’s gonna say it, because Lip needs to _hear it_. “You’re one of the best people I know.”

“Fuck off.”

“Nah, man. I _mean_ it. I don’t got a lotta good people in my life, Lip. Not who I can trust. But you’re fuckin’ one of ‘em.”

“I don’t wanna be him.” Lip admits, voice _broken_ around the edges. “I don’t wanna turn _into_ him. My entire life, I’ve looked at him and seen exactly what’s waiting for me. I’ve always known this was coming. And I don’t. I don’t _want_ it.”

“You told me once that Ian being bipolar doesn’t mean he’s Monica.”

“‘Cause he’s _not_.” Lip runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

“Exactly. So, by your own fuckin’ logic, you having a drinking problem doesn’t mean you’re _Frank_.” Mickey scratches at his temple and sighs. “We all got problems, right? My dad, Ian’s bipolar, your drinking. We’re all fucked up. It’s what we choose to do about it that matters, though, right?”

“What do I _choose_ to do here, Mick?”

“Get help. For your family if nothing else, man.” Mickey sighs. “They fuckin’ _love_ you, you dumbass. They _need_ you.”

He knows Lip hears what he isn’t saying, what he can’t quite bring himself to admit.

That Mickey needs him. That Mickey maybe even loves him, if he lets himself think about it.

Which he doesn’t. But, well, it’s the truth, isn’t it? He _does_. Doesn’t mean he’s gonna fucking _say_ it, though. It’s too raw, it’s too real, it’s too _much_.

But it’s there.

And Lip _hears_ it.

“Yeah.” Lip says eventually. “Okay.”

The door behind them opens again and Ian stumbles into the room. He stops when he catches sight of them. Smiles. Wanders over towards them and comes to a stop just in front of them.

“There you are. You okay?”

“Yeah,” Lip says, hopping off the stage and straightening his shirt. He offers Mickey a smile. “Yeah, we’re okay.”

Mickey _knows_.

Lip’s gonna do it. Lip’s gonna get _help_.

The idea of it makes him feel a little lightheaded.

He slides off the stage too, smiles when Ian pulls him into his side and wraps an arm over his shoulders.

It’s gonna be _okay_. They’re _all_ gonna be okay.

“Think we figured out a way of getting rid of Frank.”

“Oh, yeah?” Lip asks.

“Wanna help throw him off a bridge?”

It shouldn’t be funny. It really shouldn’t. But there’s something about it that makes all three of them start laughing.

After a couple seconds, Lip stops. Gives Mickey a _look_. “Nah, sorry, man. Got somewhere else to be.”

Ian frowns at him a little but accepts it. “Okay.” He turns to Mickey. “ _You_ wanna help throw him off a bridge?”

Mickey _really_ can’t believe that this is his fucking life. He takes Ian’s hand, lets himself lean against Ian’s side. Because he is _safe_.

“Sure. I’ll help throw Frank off a bridge. Why the fuck not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, here we are. we made it! the end is upon us. although, let’s be real here, this isn’t the end of this universe. i’ll be back at some point. maybe not for anything as heavily involved as this, but you can definitely be expecting me to come back and write more for them.
> 
> anyway, a little bit of housekeeping:  
> \- i was going to include the scene with larry, but in the end decided not to - ultimately because, whilst it’s the end for us, it’s not the end for mickey. mickey’s got another nine months with the guy as his p.o.  
> \- i’m not 100% sure how i feel about fiona’s wedding. there are two versions - the one here, and one where i included more of the dialogue. obviously we know which one i went with, and the reason why is because it felt less… busy? this way? i didn’t realise just how much frank talks until i started writing it lmao  
> \- that ending conversation between lip and mickey comes directly from a conversation i had with taylor about how they’re both terrified of becoming their fathers
> 
> i’m so fucking anxious over this holy shit, lmao. ANYWAY, i just wanna say, from the bottom of my cold, dead, heart thank you so much for sticking with me! i’ve had such a blast writing this, and part of that has been thanks to everyone who’s been kind enough to leave me comments, or shouted at me on twitter! so honestly, thank you. i hope you enjoyed yourselves, and i hope this chapter lived up to expectation!!!!
> 
> i am, as always, on [tumblr](http://floristmick.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/floristmick) and if you’re on the discord server, don’t hesitate to yell at me there, either <3


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